Treetops: Stiletto Missiles
Another extract from my book in progress. Find the first teaser here. Adult content warning applies.
I’M stuck to the sheets when I find myself thinking about her again. It’s been a long and busy morning. Sweat still running down my back when a hand caresses my collarbone and my thoughts are shattered.
The glistening woman in my bed moves towards me, her long hair caressing me as she starts to kiss down my neck, but the moment’s gone, if it was ever a moment.
Now all I smell is alcohol, cigarettes and desperation. I want to think about her, not here where there’s someone in my bed whose name I can’t remember.
I ask her to leave. She snarls and throws her shoes at me, scattered around the bedroom along with our clothing. I duck and they miss, one red shoe and then the other, hurling past at warp speed. It’s not the first time I’ve had to dodge a stiletto missile and I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last. I groan inwardly and clutch my head.
For the briefest of moments I consider saying something but quickly change my mind. Not the time or place for pleasantries, not when she’s shooting me looks that could melt my soul at 50 paces.
Instead I stay quiet, watching her as she throws her skirt and top back on. No words, no eye contact, the anger palpable. Shoving her knickers and bra into her bag and grabbing those five inch heels, she heads for the door and slams it, the noise reverberating around the room and into my ever so fragile brain cavity.
“Fucking Arsehole!” The words soar around the apartment as the front door slams and she is on her way. I wince and find my body involuntarily jerking as I dodge the emotional bullet that’s just been fired in my direction. I shake my head, take a second or two and then my slightly warped sense of humour takes over.
Is it wicked of me to imagine her walking down the street like some modern day Pied Piper of Hamelin, with stray cats and dogs following her, intrigued by the captivating aroma emanating from her fake Gucci handbag?
I try to stifle it but I can’t help it. I laugh out loud then throw back the covers, jump out of bed and into the shower to wash this morning away.
I couldn’t even begin to describe what she was like. I know she was blonde — natural or bottle? Not sure. Did it matter? Nice legs, a wiggle in her hips, I remember that but beyond that, couldn’t tell you.
Cards on the table here. I wouldn’t know her if we came face-to-face on a packed tube train in the rush hour.
Not surprising really. It was dark when I shoved my hand up her skirt last night in the dingiest part of the club I could find.
When in a drunken blur I hailed a taxi and then pawed at her all the way to my apartment, with the taxi driver getting a cheap thrill via the rear view mirror.
Flesh, just flesh, and there was lots of it. Hot, pulsating, sweaty flesh for the taking. I go to laugh again but this time my body won’t let me and the laugh catches in my throat, actually lower than my throat, it’s in the pit of my stomach. My heart hurts. It’s heavy, real heavy.
I take one slow, ragged breath as the water cascades and then the tears begin to fall. No place to go, no reason to fight it any more so I slump onto the floor, shutting out everything or at least trying to. I’m alone and I feel it. No love, no understanding, just crap sex with a stranger.
I shut the thoughts out, lock them away and let my head and then my heart go numb. I feel nothing. I am nothing.