Page 23 of F*ckboys

"Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender, sliding onto one of the worn stools. He nods, pouring me a shot of amber liquid. I knock it back, my throat burning from the heat of the alcohol, but it's a welcome distraction. The image of Maddie Smith, broken and distraught, lingers in my mind, her tearful words echoing through my head. I can't even imagine what it would feel like to have my most private photos and videos plastered all over theinternet for whoever to see. Such an invasion of privacy, and most definitely intentional. Jacob Daniels will pay for what he did to her—I'll make sure of it.

"Another," I say, pushing the empty glass towards the bartender. He refills it without question, and I toss it back just as quickly as the first, the warmth spreading through my chest. The world shifts around me, blurring at the edges, and I let the haze take over as I continue to conjure up elaborate revenge plots against Jacob.

"Rough day?" the bartender asks, wiping down the counter with a damp rag.

"Something like that," I reply, my voice tight. "You ever had someone you just wanted to bring down?"

"Who hasn't?" he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But you know what they say—revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Or with a side of whiskey. I mean, both are said to be poisons that consume you from the inside out." I smirk, raising my glass in a mock salute before downing another shot. He laughs, shaking his head, but pours me another anyway.

"Can't argue with that," he says, leaning against the bar. "Just don't let it consume you, alright?"

"Too late for that," I mutter under my breath, my thoughts swirling around Jacob Daniels and the ways I could make him suffer. He deserves nothing less, and I won't rest until he's on his knees, begging for mercy.

"Hey," the bartender says softly, concern etched onto his face. "Whatever it is, just remember that you're better than them, alright? Don't let their darkness poison you too."

I nod, appreciating his words despite the anger boiling inside me. He has no idea of the darkness that swirls within. But I can't let go of the rage, not yet. Maddie deserves justice, and I'm the only one who can give it to her.

"Thanks," I tell the bartender, my voice rough. "But this is something I have to do."

Feeling looser and in need of a distraction while my brain plots against Jacob in the background, my eyes drift away from the bartender and scan the dimly lit room, landing on a mysterious stranger perched on a barstool in the corner. He's tall, with dark hair and an enigmatic smile and intense dark eyes, exuding an air of danger that immediately piques my interest. He wears a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing tattooed forearms that make my heart race a little, and ripped jeans with scuffed, steel-toed boots. I need something to numb me, to make me forget the weight of what I'm about to do. Maybe this man can provide that temporary escape.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter under my breath as I stride towards him, confidence masking any lingering doubt. When I reach his side, I lean against the bar, close enough for him to notice the fire burning within me. I don't want there to be any room for misunderstanding about what I'm after. He's even better-looking up close and I feel a twinge of excitement at the thought of what I'm about to make happen.

"Hey there," I say without preamble. "You're looking for some no-strings-attached fun tonight?"

His eyes trail over me for a moment and I can tell he's pleased with what he sees. The man raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my blunt approach, but his lips curl into a knowing grin. "I might be. What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing too complicated," I reply, my voice dripping with seduction. "Just two people drowning their demons for a night."

He studies my face for a moment, as if gauging whether I'm serious. Whatever he sees must convince him, because he nods and drains the last of his drink. "Lead the way."

We exit the bar and make our way down the street, the cool night air doing little to quell the heat simmering between us. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, Jacob Daniels' name still echoing through my mind, but I force it all aside. The rest of tonight is about distraction, not revenge.

"Over here," I gesture to a nearby hotel, succumbing to its flickering neon sign like a moth drawn to a flame. It's cheap and divey and well-suited for the rough primal night I have planned. We walk in, and I saunter up to the front desk, giving the receptionist a tight-lipped smile. "Room for the night, please."

"Name?" she asks in a bored voice, her fingers poised over the keyboard.

"Jane Smith," I reply, a fake name to throw off any potential eavesdroppers. The receptionist nods and hands us our keycards, her face displaying no judgment or curiosity. This is not the kind of place where they check for IDs or charge for incidentals, because they don't care who you are as long as you have cash, and there definitely aren't any incidentals.

"Room 314," she says, her voice monotone. "Enjoy your stay."

"Thanks," I murmur, grabbing the man's hand and leading him towards the elevator, my heart pounding with anticipation. This isn't love, it's not even desire, although the man is attractive and has a certain energy about him. It's a desperate attempt to forget the darkness brewing within me, if only for a few hours.

But as the elevator doors close, sealing us in, I can't help but think of Aksel and the way he makes me feel alive. And I wonder if this night will be enough to wash away the emptiness consuming me from within. I quickly shove all thoughts of him down and I turn to face the man from the bar. "Are you ready?" I ask, my voice husky.

"I can't wait," he growls as we make our way out of the elevator and down the hallway.

The moment the hotel room door clicks shut behind us, an electric hunger surges through me. I grab the hot stranger by his shirt collar and pull him in for a rough, greedy kiss. Our lips crash together as our hands move with urgency, tugging at clothes that suddenly feel like barriers we must break down.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, his fingers deftly lifting my racerback top up over my head and letting it fall to the floor. My own hands are busy tearing at his belt, yanking it free and discarding it with impatience.

Shirts, pants, underwear—all of it becomes a forgotten trail on the floor as we stumble towards the bed, still locked in a frenzied embrace. It's all action, no words; our mouths too preoccupied with kissing to bother speaking. The only language here is raw need, a primal craving that demands satisfaction.

His torso, like his arms, are covered in tattoos and he's sculpted as fuck. By his boots and his figure, and his rough, calloused hands, I can tell he works in something physically demanding like construction or landscaping or maybe heavy equipment. While in some ways I couldn't care less who he is, his ruggedness further sets off the primal urgency within me, although in ways he might not expect.

He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling his hardness pressing against me. My back hits the mattress, and he follows, not once breaking contact. His body covers mine, hot and heavy, and I arch beneath him, seeking friction. He reaches down to line himself up with my entrance and slams himself into me. I'm soaking, hungry with desire for an anonymous physical connection. Still, I gasp as his girthy cock stretches my walls, stinging in a good way as he slides into me to his hilt.

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