The Playtoy's Redemption

1

Axel

I wake up with a pounding headache, the kind you get after a night of endless drinking, fake smiles, and shameless flirting all of which hurt to remember. I must have taken one too many drinks last night. There is nothing quite like post liquor indulgence regret, that I'm pretty sure of. This pounding feels ethereal, as if I am experiencing some life outside mine; a reality submerged in a throbbing recklessness.

I turn to my side to find a blonde sleeping next to me. She sighs and licks her lower lips. Outside, I can see the dizzy outline of the morning sun threatening to pull in my room. I smirk to myself, thinking of last night's memories. It comes rushing in now, these messy memories, hot and cold at the same time, blurry, almost, at the seams. The girl by my side moves gently, turning away so that I am caught by her naked frame. She had been really good last night, wonderful even, pushing me to the edge. Nikki, Millie, Sillie? Gosh, what was her name?

I slide out of bed and drag myself to the shower. The water is too warm and when it falls down on my skin, I think about last night and the broken neon sign above the bar's door. I remember the blonde leaning in to whisper obscenities. She had teased, daringly, and I'd brought her home. Her name is not something I can easily remember but I remember the dizzy pleasure and it calms me.

Somehow this has become some sort of daily ritual for me. I'd dip in enough sin and wash it off in the morning, letting the steam drag me in like a tidal wave, evaporating any regret laced in my soul and body. Often, it is simple and dull and feels remarkably mundane but my life has always been about small bouts of pleasure in any pocket and in any form. I sink everyday with different women and sometimes, like today, it makes me delirious with satisfaction.

Later, as I wrap a towel over my waist, I hear footsteps in my room. I find her sitting at the edge of the bed, the sheets wrapped steadily over her frame. She's pulled the curtain apart and seems like she's waiting. We don't talk for a while and then she looks down at her feet. By the morning light, she looks pale and breathless and her hair is a tangled mess.

"Good morning," she says in a hoarse sleep-heavy voice. I see her glance around the room, taking in the white washed walls and the overly expensive bedside table. She seems to be thinking. Suddenly she stands and the sheet falls to the floor.

My lord, she has such a gorgeous body.

She tiptoes to where I'm carefully perched and slides her hands gently over my body. It is electrifying and real and seductively disarming but I pull away. She frowns and steps back and I can see the frown etched across her forehead. She wants to say I am being immature but the words come out as a pained am I doing something wrong?

I sigh and skip to the ward rope. She is indecisive. She runs a hand through her hair and shakes her hands. She does not call me out, does not even mean to but I can hear the silent hate and it doesn't feel remotely painful. As much as I have often tried to avoid such scenarios, it happens. Today isn't any different and because it feels like a déjà vu, it does not particularly worry me. I do like getting laid like any other sane man on earth, of course, but the very idea of double taking the same woman isn't something I'm into. For one, it opens up doors to attachment and drama and two, it brings no real mystery.

Besides, she was good at sex, but she wasn't mind-blowing and addictive. Just a regular scratch the itch and ditch kind of good and that did not count as anything.

"I wasn't counting on you being here by morning," I say.

She opens her mouth to say something but stops herself. I hear her chuckle, knows she barely means it.

I am halfway dressed before she talks. "I kind of figured that part out."

"Good," I turn around to catch her eyes. She has brown eyes, almost golden, like the sun and it shakes me for a bit. Eyes are the first thing I notice about a woman and yet I hadn't noticed hers. It hardly matters now. "You should put on something and leave."

She starts to pout and immediately I think her name has got to be something a little less sure. Mariam? "You should really leave."

"I thought we had a great time last night. In fact, I recall you saying you could fuck me forever," she says, with frowned brows, and I almost feel sorry for her.

"Yeah... Men tend to say many things while in the throes of pleasure," I say, in as gentle a voice as I can bring myself to use.

Her disappointment evolves into hurt and scorn. Her brows are no longer just furrowed. She has her nose twisted up in disgust, and her eyes are glaring daggers my way.

This has to be the most moving performance yet, but I cannot be bothered with such trivial antics.

"Listen," I am half aware my voice has risen and she isn't naked anymore. Everything simply feels as though I've done it before and the lack of mystery makes me sick. "I liked you for the night, not forever, okay? Now be a dear and leave. I need to be at work soon."

"Excuse me," she exclaims, her face contorting with anger.

I cut her off, "You are excused. Well, actually, I'm trying to excuse you, but you aren't budging one bit."

"You are an arsehole!! You can't just lie to people and use them like that." Her voice is nothing more than a steep mixture of fury and chagrin but she is dressed now and combing her hair with her hands.

I imagine her insides boiling hot with anger and resentment, like the whistling sound of a kettle as the steam escapes. Well, the pot is boiling, that is certain and I am reluctant to meddle in.

"You can't do this," she whispers.

"Quite the contrary, darling, I can do whatever I want. And don't play me out to be the bad guy here; you knew what you were getting into last night."

She rolls her eyes, those brown eyes like the sun at dawn, and licks her lower lips.

"I clearly told you that this," I say, pointing between us, "was only for one night. Now please get your bag and leave. I have places to be."

She picks up her bag and glares at me. "I should go," she says after a short while. We don't talk afterward even though we both have too much to say. She moves past me and grazes my shoulders against hers. She hates me, she wants to say but its morning and we are both too careful with emotions. It's the door she hurts most, slamming it as hard as she can. It's a subtle message she's passing and it comes to me in snippets.

I worry for those poor hinges! They have been slammed one too many times.

I remove the sheets off my bed and throw them into the laundry hamper going downstairs to the kitchen to get some breakfast ready. Unlike most people who love to drink coffee, I love taking green tea or simple red rose tea with scrambled eggs and toast in the mornings. No, I hold nothing against the idea of drinking coffee but personally, I'd hate to find myself in the position to drink one.

Once I finish my breakfast, I head out to my car. The drive is slow and steady, affording me the time to think about how my day will eventually turn out. It is not usually boring but the mystery is gone. Half the time, the schedule is the same: traumatizing and slow. I tell myself I usually end up in bars and hotel rooms because I want to experience something other than the relative calmness of my office walls and sometimes it's true.

I find myself lost in between the drive and the crazed thoughts so that when I roll to a stop in front of a traffic light, I am mostly surprised. I roll the glass down to catch the warm sun as it trickles like snowflakes against my car. A man is walking his dog and a tattooed teenager is on the phone. Something about these simple movements and these strangers taunt me and the fear builds gently in my heart. I am not like these people; free and emotional at the same time. I am Axel Clark and I don't do emotions.