I’ve been good to her.
I have every intention of continuing to be fucking good to her, despite the fact that sometimes she makes it really fucking hard.
I’m still standing by the door. Somehow, there’s a part of me that thinks she’ll change her mind – that the pull that links me to her will be just as strong as the one that links her to me and she won’t be able to book it back to her parent’s house. When that doesn’t happen, I can’t say that I’m surprised.
Still standing in front of the door, I pick up my phone and pound out a text.
Is this really what you’re gonna do?
Five minutes go by and there’s no answer. I know that she read the message, she just doesn’t know what the fuck to say. Good, because there are no right words. Just right actions. And I know for certain she’s not planning on coming back here.
Better to get this thing started, if I’m being honest about it. The earlier I get fucked up, the easier it’ll be entertaining people who know how the fuck to entertain themselves. I spin the top off a bottle of Vodka and eye the stack of red cups for a short moment before tipping the bottle to my head. The swig is rich and harsh and burns the corners of my mouth before scorching my throat. This is what happens when you bring a prissy miss right-foot into your life. Once upon a time, I used to chug so much Vodka that it used to taste like water. Now, it just tastes like ass.
Thanks, Beth.
Thanks a fucking lot.
Not gonna stop me though and so I move over to the sofa and tip the bottle to my head again. It doesn’t take long for my head to start swirling and when I stand in anticipation of changing out of my wet hockey gear, my feet feel light and unstable beneath me.
At least there’s one benefit to not drinking like a horse.
On my way to the bedroom I check my phone again, still no message from Beth and so I send her another one.
I hope you’re happy. I hope being the kind of wife who can’t celebrate her husband’s wins makes you happy.
I smile at that, knowing the message ought to at least sting a little. Maybe she’ll even squeeze a tear out. Maybe she’ll come back. Nay, I’m pretty sure that last one isn’t going to fucking happen. She’s too stuck in her ways. Too stubborn for her own damn good.
I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower. I’m so used to having her in here with me that I almost forget how big and lonely it feels when it’s just me. Fucking hell. This girl has imprinted herself into every damn inch of my life. At least I’ve got my bottle of Vodka with me. It still burns with each swig, so much so that I get the brilliant idea of filling the empty space in the bottle with water. If anything, that makes my feat to get drunk even harder. The burn is lessened, yes. But now the Vodka doesn’t just taste like ass, it tastes like actually shit.
I press my finger to the center of the bottle, vouching to stop when I get to the halfway point and put my taste buds of out of their misery. I’ll be drunk enough then.
I scrub up my body real good. Wash my hair. My back. Stroke my cock. Harder. Faster. Pulling images of Beth fast asleep with one leg thrown to the side, her pussy on full display. So pink. So wet. So ready. But Beth’s pussy isn’t here right now, and she’s made it that I don’t have the option of being picky. Mad at her as I am, it doesn’t take long for me to shoot a load against the shower floor. A load that I almost bust my ass in as the doorbell rings. Slipped on his own cum and cracked his skull open. What a way to die that would be.
I decide that the incessant knocking on the door is not that urgent and give myself enough time to get decent before budging to open it. When I’m out of the shower, I towel dry my hair and slip into a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. The knocking is heavier now and it might be the alcohol but I’m at least half-way convinced that there’s scratching accompanying it.
I pull the door open, lazily, annoyed and am about to turn my back on the entrants when silk, brown fur comes into view. I might be drunk, but there’s no questioning what’s in front of me. I’m standing face to face with a bear. A fucking bear. He’s growling now, throwing himself at me. My fist balls tight and without so much as a second thought, I’m in attack mode. My punches find purchase coming to effect as the bear groans. “What the fuck, Maverick?” I hear the words, but they don’t stop my attack. Not until I’ve knocked the bear’s head from his body to reveal a perfectly shocked human face.
“Ethan?”
He sheds the rest of the bear costume and hurls it at me. “Damn near knocked my fucking teeth out,” he growls, stepping into my condo and checking his gob in the mirror next to the guest bedroom.
I’m way past apologizing and so I don’t. Serves him right. What the fuck did he think would come of showing up the way he did.
Maybe if I weren’t wasted off my ass I’d have realize that bears don’t knock on fucking doors. They don’t ride elevators either.
The rest of the team files in, dispersing into the open room and immediately making themselves at home. A few of the guys line up to play darts and the girls are already fixed with cups in their hands. I’m about to turn my back on the door and pour myself a drink when a very family face pulls into view.
She’s wearing fuck-me stilettos to match the whorish look in her eyes. I get as far away from her as possible. Selina spells trouble. The kind of trouble that I’m too married to get into. But also the kind of trouble that being drunk makes it easy getting into.
Skipping the chance of downing a decent fucking drink, I slip into my bathroom and retrieve the bottle of Vodka from my shower. I look like a thief in my own house with the way I’m checking behind me the entire time, making sure Selina is nowhere in sight. And I’m kinda successful. At least for the first two hours. But as the night ages like cheap whisky in a dirty barrel, I find that Selina becomes more and more impossible to avoid. Two’s company. Three’s a crowd. And four makes it downright uncomfortable to push boundaries. That’s what I need to do. Make sure she doesn’t catch me alone.
I group myself up, throwing darts with the boys, brushing off the comments Selina sneakily whispers my way. When she’s lost all her shame and the flirtations become unbearable, I strip off my clothes and make use of the freezing cold rooftop pool. The decades it took her to cake makeup onto her face makes me certain she’s not about to follow me for a swim. I’m actually successful in that regard. If success can be claimed when you’ve gotten blue-balls from something other than lack of sex. But that’s just the way this cookie has crumbled and I’m okay with that. Maybe my whole cock will freeze off and Beth will feel hella guilty. She looks like the kind of girl who’d want to have a whole football team of kids. Not gonna get that with a cockless husband, are you, Beth? The thought of it makes me laugh like it’s not my own damn cock that I’m talking about. Somewhere in there, however, is brilliance. So much brilliance that I think the idea’s worth sharing with Beth. It’s the only reason I get out of the pool. First, I call her because who wants evidence that they’re about to put their cock in jeopardy to spite a girl. When she doesn’t pick up, I text.
I’ve frozen all our future kids. And my cock. Simple. To the point.
She doesn’t answer. Her phone’s probably not even on.