Page 20 of Lovers Fate

The door to my left opens abruptly. A guy walks out wearing a black hoodie, similar to the man at the end of the stairs. Right behind him is a woman I recognize from the club. She was one of the girls snorting lines of coke when I walked in the dressing room. Her nipples are clearly visible from the white T-shirt she has tied under her breasts and a leather mini skirt so low on her hips you could tell she isn’t wearing underwear.

If she recognizes me, she doesn’t show it. The girls at the club probably have a rule outside of the church. I briefly glance to my right, feeling a wave of relief wash over me as the mysterious stranger disappeared. Like he vanished, and it was all in my head.

Maybe it was. It isn’t the first time I’ve been confused about what I saw or what I did, like where the ax I killed my stepfather with came from.

The man pivots, causing the brunette from the club to collide with him. He’s tall, but not as tall as the creepy stranger who stared at me like a serial killer.

This guy isn’t old. He is attractive with high cheekbones and dark hair. His eyes have the color of coffee. He’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t need to fuck a stripper in a seedy motel.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, glaring at me.

“You neighbor,” I spit. “The one that couldn’t stand being in her room with all the noise.”

He raises a brow. “What’s wrong? Aw…did I scare him off? He snorts. “Besides, no one comes here to sleep.”

I’m annoyed that he would think I would fuck for money. I’m not one to judge anyone, but I don’t like people to assume things about me.

“I don’t sell myself short,” I reply sarcastically.

The brunette gasps, but I don’t care. She isn’t my problem.

His gaze slides up to my face disapprovingly. “Is that what he told you before leaving?” It looks to me like he wasn’t in a mood to be charitable. Can’t say I blame him.”

I laugh. “Oh, please. I’m not desperate.” I glance at my coworker. “No offense.” I ignore the glare on her face and look back at him. “You think you’re better than her because you paid her for five minutes.”

His eyes darken.

“Who said it was five?” he challenges.

I struck a nerve.

“The picture frame above my bed,” I reply.

He grins. “You counted?”

“I didn’t have to. It was over by the time I made it to the door.”

“That means you listened?”

I didn’t. I was scared shitless by the man watching from the stairs. I’m stalling so they don’t leave, and I’m left alone. I couldn’t care less if they fucked for an hour or five minutes. There was something about what I saw. The way he stared before disappearing was captivating. It was both dangerous and thrilling. For some reason, I felt alive—scared but alive.

“What would be the fun of that?” I ask.

“That’s what women do when no one wants to fuck them. They watch. They listen. They wish.”

“It’s fake,” I deadpan.

He pinches perfectly shaped brows. “Fake?”

“She was faking. She can’t come.” A look of unease washes over the brunette’s face.

A look of horror crosses his features. Every man’s fear. That’s why men pay for sex or fuck women they don’t care about. The performance. The high. But women also feel a high. They experience a feeling of euphoria.Sex addicts. Drug addicts. Serial killers. I read about it. Studied it.

Women who abuse cocaine can go longer when having sex. There’s a momentary surge in sexual pleasure, but there’s a catch: they can’t orgasm. In the brunette’s case and in her line of work, she has to fake it. I’m sure she’s a pro at it.

I don’t see how she would need to be coked up to fuck him. My only guess is she prefers women to men.

“I have to go,” the brunette says, walking around him toward the stairs. She raises her hand when she descends the first steps. “Call me.”

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