Page 3 of Property of Thrasher
A bump.
Soft.
Delicate almost.
Barely there, but enough to be conscious of.
I broke away from Maria with a growl spinning toward the contact pulling my fingers from her slick cunt.
What met me on the flip side of my stare was a damn doe in the headlights.
The outlier.
Again.
Her eyes widened, lips parted in horror, and her cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.
“I, I didn’t mean,” she stammered like she wanted to be swallowed whole into the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I barked wanting to know who she was tied to.
She jumped at my verbal assault. Yeah, this bitch didn’t belong here.
“I was, um.”
I narrowed my eyes silencing her. “You were just leaving. This ain’t your place.”
She paused, her eyes not leaving mine. “I shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, turning quickly and disappearing into the crowd.
I watched her go. Maria touched my chest, “Thrasher, let’s go to your room.” Maria leaned in and licked my neck from my shoulder blade to my earlobe.
I pushed away from her. “No,” I muttered peeling her hand off me, “go play with someone else.”
She frowned, but knew better than to question me. Slinking away, disappointed, she rejoined the crowd. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, intrigued by the innocent woman who was among us.
The woman with too nice of clothes, jumpy eyes, and an allure that was dangerous. She was trouble. Not the kind that came in packing heat, or looking to turn someone.
No, she was the worst kind of woman for any man.
She was the kind that made a man think, really think about what he said and did. There wasn’t a motherfucker in this building that had time for that kind of woman.
Somehow even as I turned my attention back to the party, even as Pinky raised a bottle to the room, I couldn’t shut off the echo of her voice inside my head. “I shouldn’t have come.”
No, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have.
Pinky didn’t just party. No, the motherfucker roared back into life like someone with fire under his boots. The more drinks he had, the crazier he got. He didn’t waste a second finding me with two beer bottles in hand. Biting the caps off with the fucking teeth, the ones he had left, that was, before handing me a bottle. With a cheers, he tossed his back like we were celebrating a Gladiator win from ancient Rome or a Viking conquest.
“To freedom,” he yelled out guzzling his brew down hard and fast.
“To not dying inside,” I replied taking a long pull from the beer he had just given me.
He laughed, deep in his throat, loud before chucking his bottle over his shoulder. It shattered somewhere on the floor behind him, and no one batted an eye. The prospects would clean it up.
“Damn, I missed this place,” he grinned a toothless smile. “You still got the stripper pole in the back?”
I nodded, “upgraded and got two now with a full stage set up. Steady and firm for all the ladies.”
“Like your balls,” Pinky stammered before stumbling toward the back with two bunnies trailing him like puppies.
