Her chest burned around her broken heart. She's drowning her heartbreak in alcohol. It sounds cliche. Well, it is cliche, but bars are for the broken. The vodka was lighter fluid for her spirit, shot after shot, sparking flames.
"Hey." Camila didn't hear him at first, her ears were stuffed with her own ashes.
"I've seen you throw back nine of these in the last twenty minutes, which douchebag broke your heart?" It was a statement and a question coated in a thick British accent, and it caught the brunette's attention. She needed a distraction from her misery. She turned to the man with the platinum blonde buzz cut, the scraggly beard and tattoos galore, his leather jacket hugging him tightly as he took a drink of his own.
"The douchebag that can't be broken up with. The douchebag called life." Camila answers, and she's 88% sure anything she says for the rest of the night won't make any sense, and she's kinda okay with that. The bearded man laughs anyways, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He's the type of guy Camila's inner self would usually tell her to stay away from, but as she throws back another drink full of fire, her conscience is scorched and silenced.
"Let me guess, boyfriend cheated, got another girl pregnant, and has a gambling addiction." He smirks, and the Latina raised an eyebrow at his horrible guess.
"More like, everyone I've ever loved is dead and I'm drinking to keep myself from joining them." She's never been this honest in her life, and it's mostly because she doesn't care anymore. She doesn't care about what people think, she doesn't care if this guy is a rapist or possible killer, it's an exhilarating feeling, to not care. Camila has always overthought things, considering everyone's well-being and happiness in everything she's ever done. But tonight, she feels nothing. Alcohol is her morphine in the hospital for the broken.
"So you're drinking poison to heal yourself? The irony of your dilemma is more interesting than your incredible alcohol tolerance." His lips curl into a seductive grin as he speaks, and Camila watches closely as he licks his lips.
It's the type of grin that scares grown men in clown costumes. That type of, you might die tonight grin. That serial killer smirk with cold eyes that reveal all the dark tales of their past. But Camila saw it as opportunity, relief, escape. She needed that type of grin right now.
"Are we gonna fuck now or are we just gonna sit here and act like that's not what you want?" The petite Latina inquires, growing bored with the back and forth banter.
"I'm not that kind of guy."
"Well, I'm that type of girl." Camila immediately responds, both of them staring each other down in a silent war. Camila fighting her pain, and the stranger trying to understand it.
"Okay bad girl, let's go." The handsome man gestures for her to stand, and he leads her out the bar and to his slick black Mercedes Benz. Everything screamed expensive about this guy, just the way he guided her with his hand on the small of her back made him seem entitled, like he suddenly owned her. Camila is observing everything objectively with no emotions, taking a backseat in her consciousness and letting her instincts drive. They soon start riding to nowhere, and he turns down the radio and clears his throat to speak.
"My name is Zayn." He says, not turning to look at his recently obtained prey.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you don't seem like the type of girl who has one night stands with strangers. I think if you weren't drunk and grieving you would actually have some sort of respect for yourself. I'm telling you my name so that later you won't regret having sex with someone who's name you didn't know." The unnatural blond smiles slightly, as if reminiscing on a distant memory.
"Okay." That same unbalanced, anxiety coated lie.
"I'm Camila." She responds after a long moment of silence.
"Hi Camila, nice to meet you. You wanna know more about who I am before I take your one night stand virginity?" The drunk ignored his question, distracted by his mature dialect and hefty accent. Again, Camila was a cliche, totally a sucker for foreign accents. And Zayn took her silence and memorized gaze as permission to continue.
"I was born in England, and moved to the US when I was fifteen. From there, I lived in Miami, and both my parents died in a boating accident when I was seventeen. Because of that I have an extensive fear of water and I only shower once a month." Zayn says, and they pause for a moment before bursting out laughing, Camila genuinely smiling for the first time in months. Everything is funny when you can't feel.
"Okay, okay. My parents are dead, I shower regularly and I am a comedian. Tell me about yourself." As the older man speaks, he pulls into a parking lot of a decent hotel.
"Does it matter? We're here now." Camila climbs out the car, walking to the entrance of the hotel before Zayn even has a chance to turn off the ignition. The mysterious man follows her inside, to find the eager woman already booking a room for the two. They soon obtain their key and take a short elevator ride to the second floor, silently walking to the room. Once in the room, Zayn slowly closes the door behind them, he seems more nervous than Camila is.
The brunette wasted no time, walking up to the man and kissing him, cupping his jaw roughly.
"—I'm married and have three kids." Zayn admits, pulling away from her grasp.
"And you think I care?" She pulls his lips back to hers, harshly biting down on his bottom lip.
"—I'm a serial killer, after we have sex I plan to tear you limb from limb and eat your heart out." He says, interrupting their kiss again.
"You'd only be doing me a favor." Camila responds quietly.
"You...are broken." He croaks out, speechless.
"Then put me back together, Zayn." She places his hand on her chest, capturing his lips one more time. He gives up trying to save her, his lust devouring his morality as he lets her lead them to the hotel bed. She pushes him down, straddling his waist and rolling her hips, smiling as she feels him harden.
Having sex with Zayn was different then having sex with Lauren. For one, she loved Lauren and she didn't know chicken scratch about this man. Second, Lauren always knew what she wanted without her saying it, if she wanted it rough or gentle, passionate or loving, Lauren always had that intuition. Zayn did what he knew would feel good without hurting her, his hands gentle and cautious, Camila could tell he was hesitant.
"Zayn, just fuck me." Camila had to stop, looking up at her lover that was just grinding against her, not lowering his hips to penetrate her.
"But—"
"I can tell you're a nice guy, but right now I don't need nice guy Zayn. I need I don't give a fuck Zayn. Please fuck me, I need you baby." She whispered the last bit, trying to get him riled up. It seemed to work, because after a lot of heavy breathing and one long awaited orgasm later, they both flopped down exhausted next to each other. That's another difference between Zayn and Lauren, Lauren always made her cum multiple times without any effort, and with Zayn it was only once—which is better than most of the guys she's had sex with.
"Do you feel better now, love?" Zayn asked in between heavy breaths. Camila had to think, there was still an emptiness there despite her recent pleasure, and her head still swirled with poison. She might as well still be sitting at the bar.
"Not really." She admits, sighing. The pair lays there for a few more minutes, turning to stare at each other, the intimacy not awkward or uncomfortable for some reason.
"So, when your parents died, did you spiral into a world of misery like I did when my mom and sister died?" Camila inquires, curious as to how he handled the grief.
"No, I didn't even shed a tear."
"How?"
"Do you want the truth or the fake truth?" Zayn responded, raising a perfectly shaped brow. This man was flawless, incredibly handsome and well endowed, and apparently rich, if Camila was in her right mind she might actually pursue him.
"The truth."
"I started taking these pills, they help me cope."
"Like anti-depression pills?" She guesses.
"No...they're...better than that. They show you whatever you want to see." Zayn answers, and Camila raises an eyebrow, not impressed with his dramatics.
"Like hallucinations? Ecstasy?"
"No, better. The drug takes your desires out of you own consciousness and makes it real, it's dangerous and powerful and can make you go mad if you're not careful. The pills have nasty side affects, it's better to inject it, but I can't bring myself to stick a needle in my arm." Zayn says, rolling on his back and staring up at the ceiling.
"What is it called? Where did you get it?" Camila questions, leaning up on her elbow as she furrows her brows in interest.
"It doesn't have a name because it isn't being sold everywhere yet. My dealer died from an overdose, and left me a huge supply and manufacturing contacts. I only sell it to the richest investors because it's the best of the best."
"Wow...I just had sex with a drug dealer." Camila murmurs to herself, but she still doesn't feel any remorse. She doesn't feel much of anything, except the growing tiredness of her eyelids.
"Would you let me try it? You said it's the best of the best."
"Oh no love, I've already ruined you enough." Zayn shakes his head quickly, and Camila pouts her lip.
"I was already ruined before I met you Zayn, I just wanna try it."
"It's extremely addictive, love. It takes you in this type of dreamland and you can't get out. And once you finally try and get free, your dream becomes a nightmare. It's withdrawal is horrible, worse than any type of opiate, a few of my customers have committed suicide because of it. It changes you...I can't let you fall into the same hole." The bearded man explains, his eyes stolid as he expresses the seriousness of the subject.
"Then how did you get out? How did you get sober again?"
"I...I never did, Camila."