You knock back the last shot, the whiskey burning your throat, filling you with fire and passion for a brief moment before you settle back into your pit of angst. It's a typical night at the bar; football on the TV, repetitive music on the radio, cigarette smoke in the air, young groups and couples sitting together at booths, eating hot wings. A buzz of noise fills the air, the mood cheerful and upbeat. It's almost too much to bear. If it weren't for Lyra's insistence upon you coming every other night to try to rid yourself of your social anxiety, you would never dream of coming here.
The term "social anxiety" is tossed around a lot these days, to the point where its true meaning has been lost. You don't know what the true meaning is, but you know that it does not apply to... whatever you have. A better term might be "hatred of people". Lyra always laughs when you say this, as if she thinks you're joking. If only you were. It's not your fault that people are fucking idiots; all you can do is try to avoid them. Your only real friend is Lyra Heartstrings, the beautiful harpist who possesses the ability to somehow calm the roar of the crowd at the bar enough for her playing to be heard. You've never seen a harpist play at a local bar like this, especially one as talented as Lyra; but Lyra seems to enjoy it, and, to your constant surprise, so do the bar patrons. Although you have the suspicion that their enjoyment may have less to do with the harp, and more to do with Lyra's low-cut neckline and short skirt. She certainly has a body, there's no denying that.
You watch her as she ascends the short flight of steps leading up to the raised platform on the far side of the bar, as the radio is turned off and the patrons turn their heads to look. The stage is small, a ten-foot-by-ten-foot platform, typically meant for a single musician. Lyra was generally the only live music the bar got, so as a small thank you to go along with her paycheck, someone had a large neon harp crafted and hung on the wall to illuminate the stage. Lyra looks at it, and smiles, as she always does. Then, she sits on the stool, positions her harp, and begins to play.
You sigh in admiration as her fingers dance over the strings, as does every other man in the room, and the occasional woman. Unlike them, however, you are admiring her musical gift, and not her slightly-too-exposed breasts. You close your eyes as the notes play across your ears, sending shivers down your spine. After a moment, it ceases to sound like music; your eyes still closed, the sound calls to mind a flowing stream, each note produced by the clear water dancing over the rocks. Then, after a few moments, the music changes, subtly, and yet drastically enough that it is no longer a stream in your mind's eye, but the wind rustling through the leaves of a forest in spring. You can almost feel the sunshine on your face, the breeze tousle your hair. For what feels like an eternity of bliss, Lyra's music calling to mind tranquil scene after tranquil scene, the pace increases for what can only be the finale. Now it is a roaring fire, warming and comforting you, crackling merrily and yet with fierce power not to be reckoned with; the music paints the fire in its prime, but then it begins to fade. The inferno burns down to coals, but coals to embers; and then, with the last dying breath of a single cinder, the music stops.
You open your eyes, fighting back tears, as the bar explodes into applause. You join, your hands making but a small contribution to the thunderous clapping; but it is at you that Lyra looks, smiling and waving slightly. You wave back, hoping that you don't look conspicuous in your emotions. You wipe your eyes, and look again to see Lyra walking towards you. She sits on the bar-stool next to you, and the bartender immediately hands her a beer, on the house. Yet another perk of being the sole musician at a crappy bar.
She pops off the tab of the beer and takes a drink, sighing. "Well," she says. "That was shitty."
Your jaw drops in disbelief. "Shitty?" you repeat, aghast. "That was one of the best musical performances I've ever seen. Not just from a harpist. Like, ever."
She smirks. "I dunno," she says. "I just wasn't really feeling it, I guess. I just want it to be perfect."
You roll your eyes. "For a perfectionist, you sure don't know perfection when you, well, hear it."
She opens her mouth to reply but suddenly is enveloped in the embrace of her girlfriend, Bonnie, or as Lyra calls her, Bon Bon. Lyra laughs and pushes Bon Bon off of her, kissing her as she does so. Their lips dance together for a moment, as you try not to look.
Bonnie finally pulls away from the kiss. "That was freaking fantastic!" she says.
Lyra sighs in exasperation. "No, it wasn't-" she begins, before she is shush'd by Bon Bon, and then the two are kissing again. This is how it usually is. This is also usually the point where you exit the bar. The two of them want to be together, and you're not one to interfere with that. Lyra will chalk your exit up to your "social anxiety", as she always does. And that's fine. Just gives you an excuse to be alone. You stand up, giving Lyra one last thumbs up before you walk towards the exit, push open the door, and step into the cold mid-October night air.
The entrance to the bar is in an alley next to an old abandoned building, not far from the town library. Flyers and old newspapers blow around in the wind, giving truth to the cliched images of back alleys so often seen onscreen. Stepping outside was risking getting mugged, but that hadn't happened to anyone in a while. Perhaps the muggers heard Lyra's music and decided that there was more to life than beating the shit out of people.
You walk toward the street, illuminated by a single lamp post. It's a depressing sight, really. As you approach the exit of the alley, you hear the clinking of metal on concrete and stop dead. There it is again; it appears to be coming from outside the alley, not in the shadows behind you. Good. So you won't be getting stabbed in the back, at least.
You breathe a sigh of relief as a tin can rolls past the alleyway, and laugh at your own cowardice. You turn the corner to walk towards you house, and suddenly your face is buried in a mess of rainbow hair. Before you can react, you are pushed to the ground, and kicked violently in the gut. Pain erupts through your abdomen, and you manage to roll away before any more blows can land.
"Wait," you manage to gasp, searching for your own breath. "Wait!"
You look up, and see your assailant frozen in place, eyes locked onto you, hands balled into fists, arm drawn back, ready to strike. Realization quickly dawns on her face, and her look of fierce aggression is replaced by horrified concern.
"Oh, God," she says, and begins talking all at once. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright? You came out of the alley and ran into me so I thought you were mugging me so I fought back and oh my God I hope I didn't hurt you, please tell me I didn't hurt you."
"I'm fine," you wheeze, your breath finally returning to you. "I'm fine. I swear. I don't blame you. I would have done the same thing." You stand shakily, brushing the dirt from your clothes.
Finally, it registers who she is. It's her. The Girl With the Rainbow Hair. What the fuck is she doing here?
You've seen her, practically everywhere. At the library, at the café, walking the streets... It's impossible not to see her, really. That hair is one of the most recognizable things on earth. And for some crazy reason, it is because of this that you, well, don't hate her. Everyone else you see, every other random stranger, warrants from you an automatic hatred, because society as a whole is comprised of fucking idiots. Conformists, sheep, people who exist to be like other people; individuality is a thing of the past. There is no uniqueness anymore. Those who consider themselves unique do so by making themselves look like a member of a specific crowd or social clique.
Her, however... You've never seen anyone like her. You know practically nothing about her, but the fact that she distinguishes herself from the masses in a way that no one else seems to even want to, that fact alone has caused you to harbor a secret love for her. Not a romantic love, or physical lust; you just love her for her individuality. And part of you always knew that you could not have her. You could never explain why. You just knew that she was above you in every way. Out of your league. Plus, you never had the courage to even approach her. And that same part of you did not want to. For to approach her and know her was to ruin the illusion of her perfect individuality. What if she turned out to be like the rest? What if she was not the perfect girl that you'd envisioned her to be for all this time?
And yet here she is, in front of you, rose-red eyes filled with concern. She's wearing a navy blue jacket, unzipped and billowing behind her like a cape in the wind. Underneath is a sky-blue tank-top, featuring a cloud producing a rainbow lightning bolt; her own personal logo, you guess. On her left wrist is a sweat-band with the same symbol. Her white shorts are far too short for this sort of weather. With a jolt, you realize that she is shivering; but she doesn't seem to notice.
Her eyebrow raises slightly as you remain silent. Shaking your head, you repeat again that you're fine. "What about you?" you say. "You seem a little... Cold."
She looks down, suddenly self-conscious, and pulls her jacket around her torso. "I'm alright," she says. "I just need to get home."
"What's your name?" you ask awkwardly.
"Dash," she says. "Just call me Dash. What's yours?"
You tell her your name, stuttering a bit as you shiver in the night air.
"Alright," she says. "So... Hey, why don't you come back to my house for a drink? It's the least I could do for you after, you know, kicking the crap out of you."
"You did not 'kick the crap out of me'", you say defensively. "You just caught me a bit off guard. That's all."
"So if you'd been prepared, you would have retaliated and kicked the shit out of me?" she asks teasingly.
The language is a pleasant surprise. You hesitate, unsure of whether this is a trick question. "Erm... I'm gonna leave that at a solid maybe. Depending on how terrified I was."
She giggles. "Alright, fair enough. So, how about that drink?"
You nod, smiling what you hope is your most charming smile. Although from previous practice in the mirror, you know that even that is sickly at best.
You begin walking with her in the opposite direction of your house, her shivering now more pronounced. Frowning, you remove your brown leather jacket and drape it around her shoulders. She jumps a bit in surprise, but soon grabs the edges and hugs it tightly around herself. Her shivering lessens somewhat.
The cold air tears right through your thin Green Day t-shirt, causing you to shudder, but you try to ignore it. You walk in silence for a while, before the silence becomes unbearable and you decide to voice the only valid question you can think of.
"So, why the hell are you dressed like that?"
Dash shrugs. "It's just how I dress. Not really the best choice this time of year, huh?"
You shake your head, unsure of what to say next. Conversations were never really your thing.
"What about you?" Dash asks. "What are you doing coming out of one of the crappier bars in town at..." she checks her watch. "12:16 A.M.?"
"I was listening to a friend of mine play some music," you answer. "She prefers to play later in the evening."
"You don't say," Dash says sarcastically. "Let me guess, Lyra?"
"Yeah," you say, surprised. "You know her?"
"Yep. She and I used to have a thing going together."
You raise your eyebrows, not bothering to hide your surprise. Then her face breaks into a grin. "I'm kidding, dumbass," she says, punching you lightly on the shoulder. "She's been with Bonnie for as long as I can remember. Everyone's wondering when the hell one of them is gonna propose."
You rub your shoulder, feigning pain. "You sure are friendly," you say, without really meaning to.
Her grin lessens a bit. "Well, yeah," she says. "Kicking the shit out of someone is about as intimate as you can get with a stranger, outside of fucking them. I don't see much point in formality."
"Fair enough." You shiver again, crossing your arms across your chest. "How far is your house from here?"
"Right up the road," she answers. "That's it, there. The white one with the light on upstairs."
She leads you to the front door, unlocks it, and opens it. Immediately inside is a small entryway with a coat-rack, on which Dash hangs both her jacket and yours. You enter into the main room, where you are greeted by a myriad of posters of every sort, plastering the cream-colored walls, all organized in neat rows, some framed. Bands, movies, and books are all advertised in Dash's living room, as well as a few posters and fliers for the Wonderbolts, the world famous squadron of stunt-pilots. You take it all in for a moment as Dash locks the door behind her. Then she leads you through the arch-shaped entrance to her kitchen, a large white room with marble countertops and polished stone floor tiles. To the right of the entrance, on the far side of the room is a bar, complete with swiveling bar-stools and liquor-stocked cabinets. It occurs to you how much money Dash must have to afford all this.
"So... What is it that you do, exactly?" you ask, genuinely curious.
Dash looks around. "Ah," she says. "Wondering about all this?... I'm actually a pilot. Not commercial; I fly small jets full of wealthy, drunk individuals and their adoring wives, and occasionally more modest middle-class families who have been saving for years just to afford it. Either way, it pays well." She sighs, her head dropping slightly. "I fucking hate it."
This comes as a shock. "You hate it?... I would have thought that you love flying, I mean, judging by all the Wonderbolts posters out there."
She shakes her head. "I love flying. More than anything. What I do," she pauses for emphasis, her mouth a straight line of disdain. "is not flying. It's going in a straight line between two points in a plane full of people too chickenshit to try anything exciting." Suddenly, she jerks her head up to look at you, her eyes full of light and passion. "I have flown once. I mean, really flown. I got the chance to fly with one of the Wonderbolts once. Not pilot the plane, just ride in the secondary seat. I blacked out. I fucking blacked out. That, is flying. That is what I want to do, more than anything in the world. I dream of piloting one of those planes, seeing the earth spiral away from me as I corkscrew into the troposphere, hearing the thunderclap as I break the sound barrier..." her eyes are far away. You wonder if she even remembers that you're there. She sighs again. "Yeah. That's what I want to do."
Without looking at you, Dash walks behind the bar, opens the cabinets, and removes a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. She extracts two glasses from beneath the polished countertop, and walks over to the freezer. "Ice?" she asks. You nod. She puts three cubes in each glass, pours the amber liquid in equal measure, and hands one to you. You take a sip, feeling the pleasant burning of the alcohol for the second time that night. This whiskey was of a much higher stock than what you drank at the bar. Probably expensive as hell. But then again, Dash could afford it.
You both drink in silence. She finishes her glass and pours another for herself before you even finish your first. After taking her last swallow, she sets the glass down. "What about you?" she asks. "What do you enjoy?"
You take a moment to think about how to best describe yourself. "Fuck, I don't know," you say, scratching an itch on the back of your head. "I work at the café up the street from here. Talk about a shit job... One can only take so much of those 'coffee shop' types, bringing their laptops and books to the shop so they can do exactly what they do at home only in public. Describing them as 'pretentious' would be an understatement." You exhale sharply, closing your eyes. "Other than that, I don't do anything. I mean, my free time consists of binge-watching Supernatural on Netflix, and porn. There's not much to my life." Whiskey tends to do this to you. At least you're honest.
Dash smiles sadly. "I know the feeling," she says. "You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Surely you maintain some sort of social life."
You shake your head, no. You've never really bothered with anything of that sort. This conversation is the most dialogue spoken between you and an attractive girl since high school. Even in high school, the exchanges were brief and awkward. You're surprised you've even gotten this far with her. You're not a virgin, but your first time was with a girl at a party your senior year. Both of you were drunk, and you barely remember a thing about it other than a blurred memory of her face. "What about you?" you ask, trying not to sound to curious.
"Nah," she says dismissively. "Piloting and fangirling don't allow much time for relationships, outside of the occasional one-night-stand."
"Is that what I am?" you ask, the words slipping out before you have time to think. "A one-night-stand?"
Dash's eyebrow raises, but her smile remains. She doesn't say anything for a moment. She takes another sip of her whiskey, before replying, "Possibly."
And then she winks at you.
It takes a lot of willpower just to keep your jaw from dropping. This simply does not happen to you. Ever. But you sure as hell won't pass up the opportunity.
You smile with one corner of your mouth, and take another drink, finishing the whiskey left in your glass. "Alright."
"But," Dash says. "If you wanna get into my pants, I'm gonna need to have a helluva lot more to drink. And at least get to know you a little better." She beckons you over with her index finger, gesturing for you to sit down on the stool next to her. You sit, facing her, and she pours another glass for both you and her. Then she reaches forward and lays her hand on yours, resting by your knee. Her thumb traces little circles on the back of your hand, the remaining fingers reaching under to grasp your palm. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience. "So," she says. "There's one detail that is absolutely essential for me to know about you." she pauses, and you sit in anticipation, until, with a perfectly straight face, she says, "Porn preference."
You burst out laughing, having luckily just swallowed the whiskey in your mouth as to not spray her. "Of course," you say, still chuckling. "The single most important detail for any two people to know about each other." She laughs as well, and you begin to relax a little more.
You suddenly realize that Dash is nothing like you expected her to be. She is even better. She is the single best, most unique person you have had the privilege of meeting. And now, it's not her hair that keeps your attention fixed upon her. It's the sheer amount of fire and vigor radiating from her very presence, from those beautiful rose-red eyes, that make you realize that you want more than anything to be more to her than just a one-night-stand. You begin to question your previous certainty that you can not have her. It is suddenly a major possibility. The way she is looking at you... It's hard to tell whether that's adoration, or just lust. Either way, you're pretty okay with it.
"My porn preference..." you begin. "Is whatever I can find on the homepage that's appealing within five minutes of getting a boner. My tastes aren't so refined that I can afford to be picky with my pornography." You take another drink, finishing the glass. You slide it over, and Dash refills it. "What about you?" you say. You never thought you'd ever get the chance or even have a reason to ask a girl that question.
"Pretty much the same, minus the boner," she answers, grinning slyly. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"Amen," you say, raising your glass. She raises hers as well, clinking it against yours, and you both drink, finishing both of your glasses.
Dash turns to grab the bottle, only to find it nearly empty. A thin pool of whiskey sits on the bottom of the bottle. Smiling at you, Dash raises the bottle, and puts it to her lips, tilting it. Before she completely drains it, she swallows, and offers the bottle to you. You gladly accept. You put your lips to the glass, and the small bit of liquid that is left rolls down into your mouth. You savor it for a bit, eyes closed, before you swallow and set the bottle back on the counter, sighing contently.
You look back at Dash to find her staring at you, eyes filled with hunger. Her hand is still entwined in yours; she pulls your hand to rest on her bare leg, her smooth skin warm to the touch. She continues to pull it upward along her leg, until you reach the edge of her shorts. You both stand, your hand moving upward further to grasp her thigh, firm and refined. She wraps both of her arms around your waist as your right arm drapes around her shoulders. You stare into her eyes for a moment, increasingly aware of the tightness in your jeans, until she leans in and your lips meet. Fireworks explode in your mind, as your lips play over hers, her tongue dancing lightly between the gaps in your lips. You hold her ass tighter, bringing her body in closer to your own.
She kisses you harder, moaning slightly into your mouth as your hand moves from her ass to up the back of her tank-top, your fingers tracing the length of her spine. You fumble with the clasp of her bra for a moment, smiling in satisfaction as it releases. Dash breaks away from the kiss, and begins to pull off the tank-top.
"Bedroom?" you suggest eagerly.
"No," she says. "Right here." Your look of confusion causes her to grin, flicking her tongue across her lips. "Fuck me on the countertop."
Well, if she insists.
You try not to stare too much as she fully pulls off her top, her unclasped bra falling away to reveal her perfectly formed breasts, just the right size to be able to squeeze, with perky, upward-facing nipples. She steps forward and plants her lips against yours once more, while grabbing your hand and placing it on her left breast. You squeeze gently, your fingers working circles around her nipple, flickering over it now and again, feeling it harden at your touch. You move your other hand up and do the same with her other breast, as she begins to remove your t-shirt. You break the kiss as she pulls your shirt over your head, revealing your muscled physique. Her eyes widen slightly.
"Just Netflix and porn, huh?" she asks, eyebrow raised again in that incredibly sexy way. As a response, you kiss her again, not as hard as before, guiding her hand to the crotch of your jeans. Without looking down, she undoes your belt and unzips your jeans, popping open the button and working them off of you, revealing your length straining against the confines of your boxers. Dash breaks the kiss and bites her lower lip hungrily, looking down as she slowly slides your boxers down your legs, revealing your throbbing manhood. You step out of your jeans and boxers, kicking off your shoes as you do so. Suddenly, your body tenses as Dash works her hand slowly up and down your length. Miniature electric shocks shoot through your lower abdomen, and the sight of your cock in the hands of this woman only makes you more aroused. Looking into your eyes, Dash lowers herself until your manhood is directly in front of her face. Then, without breaking eye contact, she tenderly works her lips over the head. She moves her head back and forth, her tongue prodding further down the length. Finally, she slowly takes the whole length into her mouth, not even gagging as your manhood slides down her throat. She brings her head back, and repeats the process.
To call the feeling "ecstasy" would be an understatement. What you are feeling is a hundred tiny little deaths as your mind goes blank but for the sheer pleasure of the work of Dash's mouth. You can feel your climax approaching already; your body is not used to any sort of sexual stimulation besides what your right hand can provide. "Dash," you say through gritted teeth. "You might want to stop, I'm gonna... Agh..." Instead of stopping, Dash's mouth moves faster and more fluidly around your cock, her hand now stroking the base. You can do nothing but try to maintain your balance as your orgasm hits. Your hips thrust forward, and Dash moans as rope after rope of your hot, sticky cum is shot into her mouth. She doesn't miss a drop, swallowing it all.
The feeling subsides after a moment, and you pull your cock from Dash's mouth and slump against the bar-stool, breathing heavily, eyes half-closed.
"Aww," Dash says. "I hope you're not done already."
Your open your eyes to find Dash sitting on the adjacent stool, shorts off, rainbow panties hanging off of her finger. Her legs are spread, her shaven, glistening sex yawning wide open. She drops her panties, and begins rubbing circles around her cunt, biting her lip and looking at your through heavily lidded eyes. She gasps as she brushes her fingers over her swollen clitoris, before sliding her index and middle fingers inside of herself, moaning loudly as she moves her fingers in and out in rapid succession. Your limp manhood begins to become erect once more, and your desire to fuck Dash returns, multiplied exponentially. Dash continues to look at you as she fingers herself, back arched, pussy flaring around her fingers. Finally, you can't hold back anymore. You stand, while reaching forward to rub Dash's clit with your right hand. The new stimulation causes her to gasp sharply and close her eyes, and quicken her pace in fingering her cunt. "Oh God," she says. "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum... I'm cumming... I'm cumming!"
Dash's back arches and her hips gyrate against the stool, as her soaking wet pussy clenches against her fingers, while you continue to rub her clitoris. A single, soft scream comes from her open mouth as Dash rides the waves of her orgasm. Finally, she slumps backwards, her head coming to rest on the bar-stool behind her. She lays there for several moments, eyes closed. You worry that she may have fallen asleep.
"Aww," you say. "I hope you're not done already."
Dash smiles, eyes still closed. "Of course not," she says, softly. That orgasm must have hit her hard.
She sits up, eyes open now.
"Get on the counter," you say. Dash complies, a sly grin on her face. She climbs onto the bar countertop, her knees resting on the stools, propping herself up with her elbows on the wood. Her ass is a sight to behold, spread just wide enough to expose her dripping sex, parallel to your waist.
You take in the sight of Dash's body, legs spread in perfect submission, before she looks over her shoulder and says, "Hurry up and fuck me already."
Not one to keep a girl waiting, you step forward and grab Dash's ass with your left hand, while guiding your cock to her slit with your left. You rub the tip against Dash's slit, poking and prodding the opening, eliciting an excited moan from Dash. Finally, after your teasing causes Dash to pant in anticipation, you slowly push in. You moan lowly as you feel the inside of her cunt expand to accommodate your girth. You steady yourself, putting your right hand on Dash's waist, and proceed to thrust inward as deep as you could go. You feel Dash's entire body tense, her abdominal muscles taught beneath your right hand. "Yes," she says. "Faster." And so you comply, thrusting back and forth into her. Dash cries out in pleasure, her breasts bouncing back and forth as you pound into her pussy. Soon enough, her breathing becomes more erratic, and you realize that she's approaching her second orgasm. Feeling your own coming on, you hasten the rhythm of your thrusting to meet hers with yours. She begins pushing back, gyrating on your cock, her rhythm harmonizing with your own. You can feel your climax coming on, even stronger than before. Judging by the way Dash's pussy is pulsating around you, it's apparent that hers is too.
"I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum..." you say, for the second time that night.
Through her panting and moaning, Dash manages to get out a single word. "Inside," she gasps, before her panting becomes more pronounced, before it turns to screams of pleasure. She throws back her head and sings a shrill song of pure ecstasy, her orgasm hitting her with the force of an atomic bomb, causing her cunt to contract around your manhood, sending you over the edge. As per her instruction, you release your cum inside her, your brain bombarded with tidal waves of satisfaction. You ride the waves of your orgasms together, grinding onto one another, before it subsides and you stumble backwards, pulling out of her.
You sit on the floor, slowly falling backwards, your bare back assaulted by the cold tiles of the floor. Your eyes close for a moment, but you do not allow yourself to sleep. Instead, you force yourself to sit up. Dash is in the position you left her in, legs spread, cum still dripping from her quivering slit. Her head is resting on the countertop, and upon hearing her soft snoring, you realize that she is asleep.
Seeing her like this, so vulnerable, so exposed... Snapping out of your post-orgasmic afterglow, you realize what you've done. You've fallen in love with this girl, and then fucked her. She probably thinks of you as nothing more than another one-night stand, just as you'd said. You should have waited, you shouldn't have fucking thought with your dick... Now, you can't see any sort of future together with her. You doubt she'd ever want you back. You realize that you need to leave, now, before she wakes up. You can't stay here.
But you can't leave her like this, either.
You sigh, looking at the sleeping form in front of you. You quickly dress yourself, and approach Dash, wondering what the best way to do this would be. Finally, you decide to just carry her to her room. Supporting her legs with your right arm, you gently lift Dash off the countertop, and bridal-carry her toward the stairs visible on the far end of the living room. Careful with your footing, you carry her up the stairs, and through the door to the only room with the light on. Inside is a large room, with an unmade bed, and walls plastered with even more Wonderbolts posters, although in this case it's clear that no organization was attempted, although the love with which they were hung is apparent. You approach the bed, and observe for one last time the sleeping girl you're holding in your arms. Realizing that you'll probably never get the chance again, you plant one last kiss on her beautiful lips, before laying her down on the bed and covering her with the covers. She snuggles into the pillow, eyes still closed, still snoring softly, a slight smile on her face. You feel your heart break in your chest, and turn to leave, turning out the light as you go.
You walk through the house in a dream-state, taking in the two empty glasses on the bar, the posters on the walls of the living room, the heavy scent of sex... Sighing once more, you walk back through the entryway, unlock the door as quietly as possible, open it, and step out into the night once again, closing the door behind you. A tin can rolls past you on the sidewalk, clanking softly as it goes. Blinking back tears, you turn on the sidewalk and make your way back to your house.
Heat Of The Moment - Part One
You are awakened by the sound of your alarm, blaring Asia's "Heat Of The Moment" from the speakers of your phone. Face buried in the pillow, you slap your palm around on your bedside table until it hits the screen, which you tap randomly until the music stops. You raise your head, groaning, and check the time. It's eight o'clock on the morning. You've managed to get a whole five hours of sleep. Well done.
Sitting up, you stretch your arms to either side as the events of the previous night come rushing back; the bar, getting the shit kicked out of you by Dash, hooking up with her, carrying her, naked and asleep, to her bed... Leaving her...
Your arms drop, and you exhale heavily, sadness washing over you like a tidal wave as you wonder if you made the right choice. Not that it matters now. She's gone, and there's no way in hell she'll forgive you for leaving her, assuming you even have the courage to approach her again.
You glance again at the clock. Five minutes have passed, and you need to get to work. Throwing aside the covers, you step out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, you see that you look like complete hell. You normally don't stay up that late. Hopefully nothing that a quick shower can't fix. You turn on the water and step in, sighing in pleasure as the hot water cascades down your body. You consider making the time a bit more pleasurable while you're in there, fueled by memories of the events of last night, but figure you've already wasted enough time. After quickly washing your hair and body, you turn off the water and step out, wiping the steam off of the mirror. Your hair is in a disarray, but after drying it and combing it down, you're able to work it into the style that you like. You realize that you need to shave, but after checking how it looks from different angles in the mirror, you decide that perhaps a beard wouldn't look like the worst thing in the world on you. You brush your teeth, put on some deodorant, and head to your room.
You dress in your typical work attire, jeans and a t-shirt, which today sports the cover of My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade. After lacing up your Converse, you close the door to your room to retrieve your leather jacket, hung on a peg on the back of the door.
It isn't there.
After mentally scanning the house for where it can be, the realization hits you. You left your jacket at Dash's house.
Oh fuck.
It's alright, jackets aren't that expensive, you can just buy a new one after your next couple paychecks... Wait, what the hell are you thinking? You're gonna leave your favorite leather jacket at Dash's house forever just because you're too chickenshit to face her? Hell no. After work, you decide, you are going to march down to her house and retrieve it. And if she's pissed, she's pissed. You're gonna take it like a man.
Grinning at your newfound bravado which you know will probably be gone by noon, you exit your house without eating breakfast and begin your trek to the café/bakery where you work.
It's a nice day out, warmer than is to be expected for October, making you glad that you didn't need your jacket after all. After ten minutes or so of walking, you see the café on the horizon. Subconsciously checking the surrounding area to make sure it's clear of any girls with rainbow hair, and feeling a ping of sadness when none appear, your push open the door and clock in to work, walking to the back room to retrieve your apron and name-tag. Pinning it in place on your chest, you walk back out to behind the register, thinking about buying yourself a coffee.
"Missing something?"
You jump so hard, you nearly fall over. Steadying yourself on the register, you look up. There she is, Dash herself, sitting in the back corner, half-obscured by shadow. She sets down the book she'd been reading despite the low light and stands, your jacket draped over the crook of her arm. She's wearing white short shorts, identical to those of last night, the same wrist-band, and a navy-blue tank-top. It's certainly her style.
Stepping into the light, you swallow as you see her face, a mixture or anger and disgust.
"Now's not really a good time, I've gotta-" you begin, stopping abruptly as Dash flips the sign to Closed on the doorway. "... work. How the hell did you get in here, anyway?"
"The door was unlocked," she says, glaring at you as she throws your jacket over the back of a nearby chair. You cringe slightly, as the responsibility had fallen on you to lock up last night, glad that it had been Dash that got there first, and not your boss. "Don't change the subject."
As if the universe read your thoughts, the door suddenly opens, and in strides Mr. Cake, your almost-too-aptly-named boss. Dash has her finger pointed at you, mouth open as if to speak, but remains silent, furious eyes pointed at Mr. Cake. Your boss says nothing as his eyes dart back and forth from you to Dash, eyebrow raised in amused curiosity.
"Oh would you look at that," he says. "I forgot that thing I need for that one specific purpose. I'm just gonna run and grab it. I'll be back in ten minutes. When I get back, I want to see you working the register, understand?" You nod, and Mr. Cake leaves, winking knowingly at you on the way out.
After the door clicks shut, Dash lowers her finger and shuts her mouth, closing her eyes as if composing her thoughts. Then she backhands you across the face. The sudden force and flash of pain are enough to knock you off-balance, and you fall against a table, steadying yourself as you wait for the pain in your face to pass. Looking up at Dash, you open your mouth to prepare your own defense, but Dash cuts you off with another backhand on the other side of your face. A new wave of pain cascades across your face, as you slink to the floor, unwittingly blinking back tears.
"Okay," you say after a moment. "I deserved that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, alright? I just panicked-"
"Oh, you panicked? Yeah, I'm sure you must have been in a frenzy, putting me to bed and leaving me there, naked and alone. Don't give me that bullshit."
"Alone?" you retort. "What, did you expect me to stay? You said it yourself, I was nothing but a one-night-stand. It's not like all the other guys stayed."
"They did, actually," she says coldly. "They normally left while I was in the shower. Some of them even made me breakfast."
Oh. Well, fuck.
"Alright, well, I'm even worse than a one-night-stand, then," you say, defeated. "Just gives you even less reason to come looking for me. I'm nothing worth chasing."
Now it's Dash's turn to be silent.
"What is it?..." you say, a glimmer of hope shining on the horizon.
She remains quiet for a long while. Too long, as right as she takes a breath to speak, the door clicks as Mr. Cake enters once more. But this time, his presence doesn't stop her from completing her thought.
"You're right," she says, voice dripping with icy venom. "You're not worth chasing. And you can go fuck yourself for all I care."
She turns and storms off, each footfall further shattering the brief hopefulness you felt. And then she's out the door, Mr. Cake holding it open for her in stunned silence. You catch one last glimpse of her prismatic hair before she vanishes.
Letting the door close, your boss looks at you, still on the floor, with pity in his eyes. He smiles sympathetically. "You want to take the day off, son?..." he asks, tentatively. "I can have Pinkie cover for you..."
"No," you say with false conviction, which breaks as you sniffle, repressing a sob. You're taking this awfully hard. You never had much hope to begin with, why are you so shocked that it didn't work out?
Mr. Cake isn't convinced. "Go," he says, not unkindly. "Pinkie will cover for you, and I'll have you work a longer shift tomorrow. It's fair. Now go home."
And so you do, making sure to grab your jacket as you go. A light rain has begun to fall, despite the sunny weather. The light bends in the sky to form a colorful prism. Across the street, children tug on their mothers' shirts, fervently pointing at the rainbow in the sky.
All you can see is her hair.
Heat of the Moment - Part Two
As you slowly make your way back down the street, dragging your feet as you go, you wonder why it was necessary for Mr. Cake to give you the day off. He must have been expecting you to go after Dash, or something. Have some huge romantic moment where you get down on one knee and apologize for all the world to see. Well, it's quite apparent that that isn't happening. She obviously wants nothing to do with you, and you're just pissed off enough at her that you almost want to feel the same way. Those slaps fucking hurt. And you've reached the point where you're starting to tell yourself that maybe, just maybe, you didn't deserve them.
And it is with that in mind that, instead of doing the responsible thing and going home, you find yourself walking down the alley, into the front door of the bar. It's too early in the day for any decent company to be there, and definitely too early to be drinking. But that doesn't stop you. You go in and sit, eyeing the few patrons who were desperate enough to come in to drink at- you check your watch- 9:15 in the morning. Fucking hell, what is wrong with you.
You wave to the bartender and request a beer, while glancing at the door as it opens to reveal none other than Lyra and Bonnie walking in. Your jaw drops open slightly. Surely these two aren't actually coming here to drink?...
As the bartender hands you your drink, Lyra catches your eye. Her face lights up, and she waves, taking Bonnie's hand and walking over to you.
"Hey!" she says happily. "Didn't expect to run into you here."
"Yeah," you reply, trying to slowly move the drink out of view. "Likewise. What are you two doing here?"
"Oh, we're here for breakfast," she says cheerfully. "They give me a discount for playing here and all."
She raises an eyebrow at your look of confusion. "Breakfast?..." you ask.
"Yeah, breakfast. First meal of the day. We woke up late, so we're eating a little late, so we decided to come here... You know this place is a restaurant too, right? Not just a bar?" She glances subtly at your poorly-concealed beer.
"Oh, yeah, totally," you lie. "I just sat down to order some food, myself." You hope you sound convincing.
"No you didn't, you fuckin' liar," the bartender mumbles, a little too loudly. You facepalm, while Lyra and Bonnie both snort back laughter.
No point in hiding now. You brink the bottle around and drink deeply, draining a good half of the bottle before setting it down, cringing. This is some really shitty beer.
"Something the matter?" Bon Bon asks.
"You could say that," you reply, taking another sip. "To put it mildly: girl troubles."
"What, with you?" Lyra says, surprised, and apparently before thinking, as she puts her hand to her mouth as if to take it back. "Sorry. Just, well, you don't seem to really, well, be the type."
You want to be annoyed with her for saying this, but you know she's right.
"Yeah, I know," you say. "I'm still a bit shocked, myself."
"Well, who is she?" Lyra asks inquisitively, with a sly smile.
"She said she knows you, actually," you answer. "Her name's Dash."
Lyra's smile disappears. She and Bonnie exchange worried glances.
"Dash," she says slowly. "As in, tight clothing, rainbow hair? That Dash?"
"Yep. That one." You raise an eyebrow. "Something I should know?"
"No, not really," Lyra says hurriedly. "It's just... Well... Dash isn't exactly what you'd call one of the most stable of individuals."
"Oh? How so?"
"She... Um... Fuck. Well, no sense in sugarcoating it." A sense of dread falls on you, suddenly. You can tell that whatever it is that cannot be sugarcoated, it certainly isn't pleasant. Lyra lowers her voice, eyeing the bartender, who is probably listening. "She tried to off herself not too long ago. Slit her wrists. Did a pretty shitty job of it, though. Completely tore up her wrists, but managed not to hit anything too vital. They took her in and fixed her up, and she spent a month in a psych-ward because of it. So, yeah. 'Unbalanced' would be a good word to describe her."
This is all just a bit too much to process. "Now, hold on," you say, trying to collect your thoughts. "I've seen, um, a good deal of her, and I never noticed any sort of scars that would suggest self-mutilation."
"Well, then either you're really good at overlooking flaws like that, or she never took off her wristband," Bonnie said. Her wristband. Of course. She'd never taken it off, through the entire time you were having sex. Come to think of it, she'd been wearing it today, when she slapped you. God, it seems so obvious.
"Fuck," you say quietly. "I can't believe I didn't notice. I kind of feel like an asshole for being so goddamn pissed at her as I have been as of late."
Bonnie scoffs. "You really shouldn't... It's not your fault. It's not like that sort of thing is really something you'd expect in this society. It's not your fault she's unbalanced."
Lyra looks at her questioningly. "What the hell, Bon?" she says. "I'm sure she had her reasons. Cutting yourself isn't exactly easy to do on a whim, you know. It's never really justified, but you say that as if she's some sort of freak."
"Well, she's certainly not normal," Bonnie says. "It's not like any of the rest of us decide to off ourselves when the going gets hard. It's a selfish thing to do, and you know it."
"It's selfish, yeah, but I think the least we could do is show her some sympathy for having put herself through that..." the bickering continues as you make the decision to leave. Sighing, you stand, and grab the half-empty bottle of beer. Leaving the payment on the countertop, you make your way to the exit, draining the beer as you go. You throw the bottle in the trash bin by the door, and step out into the blinding sunlight.
As you make your way home, you can't help but wonder if you dodged a bullet by ending things with Dash how you did, and not getting involved in her life.
_________________________________________
There's smoke rising, spiraling towards an orange sky, painted the color of flame by the sunset. The haze rises from the bottom of the hill, a long stretch of downward-sloping asphalt devoid of traffic, or otherwise any signs of life. A single vehicle sits at rest at the bottom, billowing black smoke.
You find yourself walking closer, and suddenly you're at the bottom of the hill. The car is less than ten feet away, but you can't get a clear view of who's inside. Your heart-rate accelerates. You already know who it is. This must be a dream- what else could it be? But you can't wake up. You don't feel in control at all. An arm drops into view, hanging loosely out the open door. A line of red liquid traces its way down the length of the appendage.
And then you're peering inside, and there she is in the driver's seat, Dash herself, naked, bloody, limbs contorted at unnatural angles. Her torn eyelids flutter open, and she slowly focuses her rose-red eyes on you. Blood flows in torrents from her nostrils, and when she opens her mouth to speak, she chokes and coughs blood onto the windshield, and you. Tears roll down her face, mingling with the gore, as she tries to get the words out. The tears turn to blood, cascading down her face like crimson waterfalls, staining her matted-down rainbow hair into solid red. Her wrist-band is gone, and visible is the ragged, bloody mess of her wrists. A bloodstained razor-blade sits beside her in the seat.
You want to help, but you don't know what to do. You reach out to take her hand, but suddenly, she pulls her arm away and smirks. "You're not worth chasing," she says. "And you can go fuck yourself for all I care."
Her smirk turns to a look of utter panic. She clutches at her throat as her lifeblood pours away. Her eyes widen to extreme widths, staring at you, silently pleading for you, her last hope, to save her. But you can't. You can't even move. "Help me!" she screams, one last desperate plea. Her chest heaves as she chokes on her own blood, and she is still, glassy eyes begging you to pull her back from the hellfire and raise her from perdition.
And then the vehicle explodes, the image of fire and death briefly retained in your vision as you awaken. There's a ringing in your ears, and your mouth is dry. You are completely and utterly terrified. You shift under your covers, and realize that the sheets are soaked with sweat.
You reach over to your bedside table and grope around until you grip the base of your lamp. Working your hand upwards, you flip on the light, the flash reminding you once again of the nightmare. You sit up, breathing heavily, and throw off the covers. Taking off your shirt, you walk to the window, trying to clear your head, and throw it open to let the cold night air in. You sigh as the chill breeze washes over you, relaxing you. And then you become slightly less relaxed as a rock flies through the open window and hits you squarely in the chest.
"Jesus Christ!" you exclaim, clutching the spot where the projectile impacted and stepping away from the window.
"OH MY FUCKING GOD," you hear from below. The voice is all too familiar.
You lean your head out the window. "What the hell is your-"
"I SAW YOUR LIGHT TURN ON AND I HAD THE IMPULSE TO THROW A ROCK AT YOUR WINDOW TO GET YOUR ATTENTION BUT I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D OPEN THE FUCKING WINDOW AND THEN I HIT YOU AND I'M SO SORRY," she practically screams, while obviously trying hard to suppress a laugh.
"Okay, okay, Christ, it's fine," you say, part exasperated and part amused. "Calm down, you'll wake the whole fucking neighborhood. What are you doing here? How the hell did you know where I live?"
"I followed you home," she says casually. "I saw you going into the bar, and hung around on an impulse. I followed you from a distance after you left. I didn't want to get your attention right away because there were people around, so I decided to come back when it got dark. I've been pacing around out here for about fifteen minutes, but I didn't really know what to say to you or how to say it, after, you know, what happened back there."
"Yeah, speaking of which," you say, deciding to try being assertive. "If you think I'm just gonna forgive and forget that whole thing, you're sadly mistaken."
"That's not what I said, and that's not what I think. You have every right to be pissed at me, just like I have every right to be pissed at you-"
"That's debatable," you interject.
"- so if you'd just shut the fuck up and let me in, we can talk like civilized people instead of shouting at each other at fucking eleven at night. Now get down here and let me in, it's damn cold out here."
You roll your eyes and shut the window. You turn to walk downstairs, and the details of the dream come rushing back to mind. You stumble, taken aback at the vividness of the recollection and the dream itself, and shake your head. It was just a dream. Fuck, it was brutal though. And the thought of losing her... Remembering her parting words... You've never been exactly superstitious, but the thought of it being some sort of premonition does cross your mind as you make your way downstairs. You usher it away, for later pondering.
You open the door, and there stands Dash, shivering, just as she had been that night. It takes more willpower than it should, just to keep from staring at her wrist-band. She steps inside, unbidden.
"Um," you say. "Come in." You realize that you're still shirtless. Shirtless and in sweatpants isn't the best way to meet a girl of this magnitude of hotness, but you decide that it doesn't really matter at this point.
She looks around, her face unreadable.
"Not quite as high-class as your house, but I make do," you say.
"No, I like it," she says approvingly. "It just feels so, well, homey."
That's kind of the point of a home, but you decline to say so.
"Let me show you around..." you say, trailing off as you see that Dash has already made her way out of the entryway and into the next room over, the living room, out of sight.
You sigh, and realize that you do that an awful lot, the sighing. You should probably stop before someone else notices.
You walk into the living room to the sight of Dash removing her tank-top, facing away from you. You can see that she is not wearing a bra. The floor creaks as you slowly approach, indicating your presence.
"I love you," Dash says.
All of this happens within the span of about four seconds, before the shock of what is happening can pass and the emotion can settle in.
"What," you say. Fucking brilliant.
"You heard me," she says, almost aggressively, still facing away from you. "I love you. And I barely know you. And you barely know me. It's not supposed to work this way. But there's just this feeling. It's not like that warm-and-fuzzy bullshit feeling that you hear about. I just... Want you. Everything about you. I want to fuck you, primarily, but I also just want to get to know you. I don't know what the actual fuck it is I'm feeling, so I chalk it up to love. That's why I slapped you, that's why I acted like a complete bitch, because I just wanted you to understand but couldn't fucking say it." She turns around, her oh-so-tantalizing breasts in full view. Her eyes are almost pleading... The look is so similar to the one in the dream. She's begging you to understand. "Does that make any sense?"
In short, she feels the same way about you that you do about her.
And in that moment, all is forgotten; her torn-up wrists, her fucked-up tendencies, that horrible dream... It's all gone. All that remains is her. And that simple fact that she actually fucking feels the same way. "Yes," you say softly. "Oh god, yes... I... I love you, too," you say, your voice filling with confidence, and the euphoric emotion of oh-my-god-I-can't-believe-this-is-fucking-happening. And now, comes the question. The question that you never, ever in a million years thought that you'd be able to ask. But now, you're bold. You're unstoppable. You're invincible. "Will you-"
"Yes," she says. You don't even need to finish. There's tension in the air, and you can practically feel the sparks of sexual electricity arcing between the two of you.
You can say with conviction that this has been the best three minutes of your life. And as you both step forward to meet in a furious kiss, it's safe to assume that it's about to get much better.
