Page 12 of Invoking Ruin

The buzzing from the alarm on my phone chases away sleep. I groan and fumble until I touch the button to silence it. Then I slam my hand against my face, unwilling or unable to open my eyes.

I don’t want to let go of the dream I’d been having. Either that, or the nightmare that had been gripping me won’t let me go. I’m not sure which. On one hand, I can recall with vividness the wet clench of the cunt I’d been buried in, but the sweet sensation melds together with the chilling sound of a woman’s cruel laughter.

The first, the pleasant sex dream, makes sense. Any encounter with Vita leaves me with blue balls and an aching cock all night long. The second, the mocking nightmare laughter which also follows her presence, leaves me cold.

Hot and cold. Sweet and bitter. It’s been this way since I met Vita, and nothing so far has made her contradictions clear to me.

If only I could get her beneath me. I’m sure the feel of her pussy would be so much better than anything a dream could conjure.

My cock strains beneath the blanket, and I wrap it in my fist, giving it a lazy stroke.

She keeps playing hard to get. It’s ridiculous. I’ve never had any woman or man say no when I ask them to bed, so I really should just go find someone else. My phone has plenty of contacts, and my bar gets plenty of tourists looking for some local Italian flavor.

Replacing her would be easy.

But I don’t. Instead, I jerk off until I come in my hand. Because none of the others I could find interest me anywhere near as much as Vita. There’s something about her, like a bright ray of sunshine on a cloud-filled day. It’s like she’s more alive than anyone I’ve ever met.

The first time she walked into my bar, I knew she was different. Impossibly beautiful, long inky hair falling in waves so perfect, I thought she must have gone to the hair salon not an hour before. She dazzled me with golden skin that practically glimmered in the sunlight, green eyes as verdant as fresh grass. She resembled one of those seductive, vampires the giggling tourists compare me to, but she wasn’t after blood, at least not yet.

There’s something irresistible about her that calls to me, a lighthouse to my ship lost at sea. But there’s an edge to that pleasure, like an overripe grape left on the vine. Sweet to the eye, but bursting with rot the moment you lay your fingers on it.

She’s been nothing but charming, compelling, but I can’t shake the sense it’s only her outer shell. What’s beneath, I can’t say.

I want to know. I’m terrified to know.

After a quick shower, I dress and leave my apartment. Vita never told me when she’s returning, but she rarely lets me know anything about her work schedule. Something about under-promising and over-delivering, or so she says.

It’s not that I mind being left to my own devices. I prefer it, even. I’ve avoided relationships for as long as I can remember, never wanting to be tied down with someone else’s expectations of me.

But she doesn’t have expectations of me. With her, I can breathe. She never pushes, and I don’t press her in return. It’s easy.

Easy is fantastic. It also makes me nervous.

I wander down the street, duck into a cafe, and drink a cappuccino. This place is one of those local secrets recently shared on the internet, so naturally, it’s crawling with tourists. One of the bolder ones, a pretty blonde woman, comes over, her number written on a scrap of napkin. She passes it to me, blushing as she says, “I’m only here for a couple days, but if you’re free, I’d love to see more of Lake Como with you.”

I smile politely and take the napkin. Our fingers brush, and she gives a full body shiver.

I feel nothing.

“Thank you. You’re very kind,” I tell her, noncommittal.

She blushes and returns to her friends, who laugh with her, pleased with their exploits.

I’m sure she’ll have no problem finding some other man to sate her desire for sex and adventure, but today I’m not one of them.

Before Vita, I absolutely would have. Why should I let her get in the way, when she isn’t even here? I don’t owe Vita any sort of exclusivity. We haven’t done more than kiss and flirt for months, and any attempt I make to get more from her is neatly evaded—a move she thinks I don’t notice. She likely wouldn’t even care if I took someone else to bed.

But I don’t want to. The evasive, beautiful woman who flits in and out of my life like a migratory bird has my whole attention.

For now, I don’t need any other paramours.

Tucking the napkin in my pocket, I leave the cafe and head toward the wine bar. Morning shifts are traditionally not big money makers, but being a tourist hotspot has its perks.

I enjoy my job. It requires knowing people well, but not too well. No one is a regular in this bar, and the constant stream of new faces keeps things from growing stale.

It’s a simple job, but I’m exceedingly good at it. There’s a certain kind of joy in picking the wine I think the customer will like best, to the point where I don’t even listen to the orders anymore. One look, and I can pick better than they can themselves. The joy in their faces when they taste it is confirmation enough.

It’s like a puzzle and I enjoy solving them.

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