The Good Girl (2 page)

In and out he slammed as my eyes rolled into the back of my head with pleasure.

“You like that you dirty little slut?” he asked while I reached between our bodies and rubbed my fingers along my swollen clit.

“As much as you do, old man.” This was quickly becoming a hate fuck. Something I haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing in a long time. I felt my body building its climax as he hammered away. A couple more thrusts and I was biting onto his shoulder, riding my wave of pleasure when he pulled out and came all over the bathroom floor.

I was glad I didn’t have to clean that shit up and I felt bad for the sucker that did. Without a word, we both fix our clothes, and go our separate ways.

When I made my way out of the stall, Cheryl was standing there with a big ass smile on her face.

“Should have known it was you,” was all she said as I walked out and headed home for the evening.

I never said another word to my silver fox as I left the bar. He was never meant for anything more than a quick fuck in a dirty bathroom stall.

Chapter Two

~ Gabriel ~

The New York City Tattoo Convention. It was a place for the freaks in this State to annually gather. Men and women – needles, alcohol and drugs – it was a mecca for those who longed to live life on the edge, who didn’t fit into the normal mold of society, and who spent their time actually living their lives instead of following a daily routine of work or school or kids.

I was fortunate that I was not a servant to any of life’s normal masters. I was independently wealthy because of the trust fund my parents had left me when they died so many years before. I almost died with them, but I believe my youth, the fact that I wasn’t bracing for the impact and the fact that I was obviously being punished and forced to live this mundane life, were the factors that kept me alive.

Scars ran over my body from the burns I suffered in the crash. I hated those scars, hated myself for having to bear them and, as soon as I was old enough, I collected tattoos to cover them. I had full sleeves of different tribal patterns and small archaic symbols that most people wouldn’t recognize – but I knew what they meant and that was the only thing that mattered. They were protection against the demons that lived around me – that lived inside me and who spoke to me, never shutting up to give me a moment’s peace.

My back was covered by an intricate back piece – large, scaly beasts breathing fire, cherry blossoms blowing through the effervescent haze of the smoke caused by the dragon’s breath. It had taken months to complete and every drop of blood I shed for it had been worth it. His diaphanous wings spread across my back, strong and powerful, as if just one beat of those wings could lift me off the ground.

Nobody ever saw him – my beast. Nobody ever saw the inside of my home much less what was in my pants. That’s not to say I was some innocent virgin who never knew what it was to taste a woman’s cunt. I’d tasted many, shoved my cock in so many holes that I couldn’t tell you the number. I didn’t bother to count or remember names. I never saw the women again after I’d left them wet and sated in some poorly lit bar restroom or in the alleyways of the city. I usually found them when they were drunk, stumbling around looking for the perfect dick to bounce on for the night. I had rules however. I never fucked without protection – never kissed the sluts on the mouth or gave them my real name. I’d never bothered to remove my shirt despite their drunken pleas to see the ink that covered my body. Those markings weren’t for them to admire, and the last thing I needed was some stupid bitch rubbing her finger along the inked lines that were more to me than just a pretty picture.

I was the definition of a recluse – the odd, eccentric orphan who grew up alone and remained alone when he became an adult. I never went outside during the day and I didn’t know the names of any of my neighbors. Children didn’t ring my bell on Halloween and Christmas lights never adorned the roof of my home. I had no family, no friends no lovers. I spent my time alone. I didn’t do what normal people did and I had odd habits. For instance, when I was bored, I would research serial killers or mass murderers. I guess you can say that’s odd, but really, I was curious. I wondered if those men and women who were infamous for having committed great acts of evil had heard the same demons inside them that I had in me. Had they listened and gone out to commit the atrocious acts and basked in the feel of their victims blood on their hands?

If their demons were anything like mine – then yes, they had.

I wanted to listen as well, but I wouldn’t let some nagging voice inside me choose my fate. I didn’t want my victim’s blood on my hands or the image of their dying eyes burned into my memory. I wasn’t a bad guy – I didn’t want to hurt people and I wasn’t bitter, despite the shit hand that life had dealt me. If anything, I was misunderstood – labeled a freak by the people who knew me – the people I never let get close enough to see the person I was inside.

I’ve been on medication since my condition was discovered when I was 13. I lived with my aunt then and she noticed the way I would look at things that weren’t in the room – how I would argue with myself and become angry when I’d spent too much time alone. After a while she listened to those arguments and realized I wasn’t just another person thinking out loud. I was talking to someone else entirely, someone who wasn’t really there.

She’d rushed me to the nearest shrink and after multiple evaluations and a few overnight stays in the hospital; they slapped a pretty label on me, shoved pills in my pocket and sent me on my way with nothing more than a ‘good luck.’ My aunt was religious about administering the meds. I hated them. They made me tired and all I ever wanted to do was sleep. For five years I was force fed a substance that turned me into a zombie – that took away my imagination and the little bit of happiness I had when I could escape into the world of my thoughts.

When I was eighteen, I moved out of my aunt’s house. She argued with me about leaving and the last words I said to her were ‘fuck off’. She died three weeks later in a crash just like my folks. A drunken man had swerved into her lane, forcing her off the side of the road and head on into a tree. I visited the site many times after her death, peeling the burnt bark from the tree, trying to remove the evidence of a woman who’d given her life to raise me only to be told to fuck off before she died. It was enough to fuel my deep-seated hatred for alcohol and drugs – for users and abusers.

Drugs and alcohol had destroyed my life, bit by painful bit, leaving me alone and flailing in a world I didn’t understand or recognize as my own. I hated drugs so much, I even stopped taking the medication I’d been fed for so many years and I was returned to a dark and ethereal world in my head, full of lovely visions and dark thoughts. The whispers came back and spoke to me endlessly. I can’t say I was upset with the company. If nothing else, the ideas they gave entertained me on long nights when I sat in a dark room illuminated by candles and, occasionally, the flicker of the television.

Stepping into the large convention center, I glanced over the booths spaced out across the room. Artists sat bent over men and women – some who were obvious ink enthusiasts and others who dared to get that butterfly on their hip as a show of rebellion to their parents. I avoided those types. They couldn’t begin to understand the machinations of my brain and I needed someone darker, as tortured as me, who I could call mine.

There was one woman in particular whom I’d followed over the years. I wasn’t a full time stalker, but I would look her up every now and again on the Internet. Social sites made finding people so much easier in the modern day and I’d find myself awake late at night looking at pictures she’d uploaded or drunken tweets she made to friends.

She was always wasted – always fucked up - and I wondered if she was trying to forget her life as much as I was trying to forget mine.

I’d bumped into her once in a tattoo parlor in the middle of the city. She’d just had some touch up work done and I was inside visiting with the artist who had created the beast on my back. He was with a ditzy, blonde customer who was having a small heart inked on her shoulder. She cried at the pain and threw a fit, so I’d walked outside to wait for him to get done. The last thing I needed was to hear her shrill voice that day.

Standing by the doors, I small woman came out of the shop and leaned up against the wall next to me. She pulled out her phone and was scrolling through one of the thousands of networking sites on the net. I’d casually glanced over and noticed her name.

I remember that she smelled like alcohol when it wasn’t even noon yet that day. She caught me looking at her screen and called me a fucking asshole before stalking back into the store, the smell of booze trailing behind her.

I hated her almost instantly – looked at her like she was one of the people who had a hand in ruining my life.

But even still, I was attracted to her. She seemed depressed and broken – pissed off at the world and all the people who inhabited it. She could have been a kindred spirit that I was letting slip away because of my aversion to being social or making friendly conversation. I was never good at small talk and I couldn’t handle a conversation about the weather when there was so much pain and heartache that we choose to turn our heads and ignore.

She left the store fifteen minutes later and her name flashed in my memory – seared into some small part of my brain that wouldn’t let me forget her face or her eyes that had glared up at me when she caught me peeking at the screen of her phone.

I despised her for being a drunk and wanted her because I knew her soul was just as damaged as mine.

After going home that night, I looked her up. The name was familiar but I couldn’t quite place where I’d heard it before. I scrolled through countless photographs of her and a single friend. Most of the shots were from bars – two girls who had their tits hanging out of their shirts, with large smiles plastered across their faces – a shot glass in each hand, held up before they poured the poison down their throats. I searched for her every night and quickly, my fascination with her became an obsession. From the photographs and posts, I felt like I knew her – that in some way I’d become a part of her life.

Every year she came to this convention. You could tell by the photographs taken and posted throughout the day that she became more trashed with each passing hour. Her posts, which were normally spelled correctly and with proper grammar, would suddenly morph into gibberish on the screen.

Somebody should have told this woman that she should leave her phone at home on the nights she got wasted. She revealed too much of herself and she made it too easy for me to discover everything there was to know about her.

Walking around the large space of the convention, I nodded my head in greeting to the artists I knew well. We’d bonded over the years as they worked diligently to cover my scars. The people who had covered the tragedy of my life that was branded into my skin had been the only ones to get to know me as anything more than a creepy guy or a midnight fuck.

After making a round, I started the circle again.

When I heard a familiar voice cussing at the top of her lungs and laughing like nothing in the world could bother her, I stopped in my tracks.

I turned around and there she was, a friend on her arm and a beer in her hand. I glanced at my watch and laughed. It wasn’t even 10:30 a.m. and she was tying one on already.

If there was anything I could count on with her, it was that she’d be drunk when I found her – and it was exactly the thing I relied on when I decided to make her mine.

Chapter Three

~Eleni~

It was almost noon - I knew because that’s what the screen on my iPhone told me. Already, I’d downed a couple of beers and turned down a handful of advances from creepers wandering around the convention. I had an appointment with Rev Chriss in an hour. He was the only person I let tattoo me, and he has done every inch of skin that is inked on my body. I trust him, unlike everyone else in the world.

Walking to the closest garbage can, I tossed the empty beer bottle in and willed myself to sober up long enough to get tattooed without Chriss turning me away. It sucked that alcohol thins the blood because there was nothing like the numbness of a twelve pack to chase away the sting of a needle. To be honest, I’d rather risk the blood loss – but the artists have rules and I have to follow them. I tried to stay optimistic by reminding myself that once this tat was done, I could proceed with getting black out drunk.

My body was jolted from behind and a tall guy with dark hair and piercing green eyes excused himself. His stare lingered longer than any fucking polite person’s would have. I wanted to flip him off, but I kept my rude behavior to myself and walked away, only mildly sassing him:

“Excuse you, fuckface.”

Molly elbowed me in the side. “Can you ever get that stick out of your ass, Elle? Seriously?”

Shrugging her off, I continued to walk around. She tagged along behind me like a lost puppy. I had my doubts that she was into the whole scene as much as I was and I thought, more than anything, that she used it as a way to rebel against the perfect life her parents handed her. She wanted to find a hot tattooed bad boy to fuck occasionally when her on again-off again boy toy, Asher, wasn’t giving her the kink her inner slut desired.

Today’s tattoo project was the beginning of the Archangel Gabriel on my thigh. Almost every inch of my body was covered in your typical Sailor Jerry style artwork, but this tattoo was different, it was unique and something the world wouldn’t see. It had meaning for me. It was for my parents. It was for protection. It was to ward off all the demons that lingered inside my head. The same ones I used the alcohol to routinely numb.

What would happen when I finally went into my clinical rotation and couldn’t start drinking half way through the school day? I hated to think about turning to something else. I wouldn’t touch drugs. They took my parents, and I wouldn’t let those demons claim my soul. Would pills be pushing it too far? Would I finally break down and take the antidepressants that had been prescribed to me after the first time I tried to kill myself? I didn’t know, but I hoped that I’d be able to manage an eight-hour workday without slipping a few sips of the flask I’d bought to carry around.