5. Darby
Darby
On today's episode of ‘Am I the asshole?’
My ex-girlfriend, who disappeared eight years ago and broke my heart into tiny little pieces, suddenly reappears in my life. So, I kiss her and imply that she was using something other than hard work to gain favors from rich people.
Am I the asshole?
Am I the asshole even if I almost lost my goddamn mind looking for her, and I spent nights drinking myself into oblivion?
I swallow the glass of whiskey in my hand and slam it against the tabletop.
The liquid burns as it slides down my throat, sharp and stinging, but it’s not enough to dull the ache in my chest.
I pick up the glass and slam again, and this time, I earn myself annoyed glances both from that bartender and the people sitting around. I still don’t feel better.
The bar smells like stale beer and cologne, and the air is heavy with smoke from the cigars a group of guys are puffing on in the corner. Laughter rings out every so often, and it makes me mad.
What’s so funny?
Why are people laughing when I’m in so much misery?
I touch my cheeks, and when I do, I see her face.
The way Selene’s eyes widened when I said it. The crack in her voice when she asked what I was doing. The slap—that sharp sting that still lingers on my cheek. But when she asked me to get the fuck out, I knew I had broken something inside her.
That’s what I wanted to do.
I wanted to hurt her like she hurt me. Break her like she broke me. I told myself she deserved it. For leaving without a word, for disappearing from my life like what we had didn’t matter. Like what we had was something she could easily leave behind.
And it seems I achieved that.
But now, I feel sick.
The bartender leans over, her hair catching the low light. “Another?”
I nod, sliding the glass toward her. The ice clinks against the side, and for some reason, I like the sound. “What’s got you in such a mood tonight, Darby?” a familiar voice asks.
I turn to see Mike, one of the guys from work, sliding onto the stool next to me. His shirt is wrinkled, and his tie is loose around his neck. He looks like he’s already three drinks in.
“Nothing,” I say, but my voice is flat.
Mike smirks, tipping his glass toward me. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
The bartender sets another whiskey in front of me, and I take a long sip. The burn isn’t as sharp this time.
Mike leans closer, his breath reeking of rum. Mike and I aren’t really friends, given that I was his boss. But he got the job because his father is an important political figure, so we occasionally meet up to hit new clubs in town.
But it’s been a while since I had an appetite for any of that.
“A bunch of us are heading out. Got something lined up. You in?”
I glance at him, not bothering to hide my disinterest. “Where?”
He grins, leaning back. “Club on the edge of town. You know the type.”
I know exactly the type—dark, loud, filled with shadows and secrets. My brother Aden’s voice echoes in my mind, his warnings about the risks.
“Those places are dangerous,” he’d said more than once. “One wrong move, and it’s your reputation on the line. And our company’s.”
I take another sip of whiskey, the memory fading into the haze settling over my thoughts. I don’t care. Not tonight.
“When are we going?” I ask.
Mike’s grin widens. “That’s the spirit. Finish your drink. We’re heading out now.”
The ride to the club is quiet. I sit in the back of the car, staring out the window as the city blurs past. Neon signs flash against the darkness, the streets alive with people spilling out of bars and restaurants.
My mind drifts to Selene over and over again.
I was so angry, but now I’m unsure if that anger is directed at her or me.
She fucked up, yes. But that was eight years ago. Why am I still so angry?
By the time we pull up to the club, the whiskey has settled into my veins, dulling the edges of my thoughts.
The building is nondescript, tucked between a pawn shop and a run-down diner. A red neon sign glows above the door, but the name is hard to make out because it’s missing several letters and my vision is blurred.
The bouncer at the door doesn’t ask any questions; he just waves us through after a glance at Mike’s ID.
Inside smells like sweat and leather. The bass from the music vibrates through the floor, the rhythm pulsing in my chest. Red and purple lights sweep across the room, illuminating half-naked or even completely naked bodies moving against each other in the dark.
It’s a sex club.
I should feel something—excitement, anticipation, anything. But all I feel is hollow.
Mike slaps me on the back, grinning. I glare at him, and he drops his hand and steps back.
“Loosen up, boss. This is the place to forget whatever’s eating you.”
I grunt and look around for a decent distraction.
A woman in nothing but black lace panties and red heels passes by. She glances at me, her lips curving into a slow smile, but I don’t follow.
Instead, I head to the bar.
As I approach, the bartender raises an eyebrow, her eyes scanning me like she’s sizing me up, trying to determine what I can afford. I slide my black card over the counter, and she straightens.
With a bright smile, she asks, “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey,” I say. “Your most expensive bottle. Just keep it coming.” I point to Mike, who is now kissing the woman in the black lace panties. “I’m covering his bills too.”
She pours me a glass of whiskey and slides it over the table.
I take a sip. My eyes wander to the dance floor, to the shadows where bodies move together in ways that should make my pulse quicken. But all I feel is numb.
You’ve become spiteful and bitter and broken.
Maybe she’s right. I am spiteful and bitter and definitely broken.
The bass thumps in my chest, vibrating through the floor and into my bones. I’ve lost count of how many drinks I’ve had. The whiskey has dulled the edges but hasn’t silenced my thoughts.
She still tastes and feels as good as she did many years ago. It’s like nothing changed at all. My body still wants her as much as it did back then, not even considering the state of my heart.
I should stop drinking. I don’t.
My head feels heavy, and my chest feels hollow. The alcohol isn’t helping. I need a bigger distraction.
“Not your scene?”
The voice is feminine but deep.
I glance to my left. An older woman stands there in a shiny, see-through dress. I can see her nipples through the light and her perfectly round tits. Her hair is platinum blonde and stops below her chin. There’s confidence in how she looks at me, a kind of knowing that throws me off balance.
She’s experienced.
“Something like that,” I slur.
She tilts her head and smiles. “You look like someone who’s trying to forget something.”
I shrug, taking another sip of whiskey. “Maybe.”
Her eyes stay on me, sharp and assessing. “Or someone.”
I don’t answer.
She steps closer, her perfume cutting through the stale air. It’s floral, subtle, and not overpowering like others here. I don’t mind it. So, when she leans in and whispers in my ear, “Want some help with that?” My body responds.
It’s the first genuine response I’ve gotten since I set eyes on Selene again.
I didn’t know I had an older woman fetish. Or maybe I don’t. Who gives a fuck? I want a bigger distraction, and one just fell into my lap.
I set my glass down and turn to face her. “Would you mind a little role-play?” I ask, and her eyes twinkle.
Kinky. Even better.
She takes my hand without waiting for a response and leads me through the crowd, past the dancers, and into the dimly lit hallway. The music fades slightly, replaced by muffled voices and the occasional sounds of laughter.
We stop in front of a door. She pushes it open, revealing a small room with a low couch and a faint glow from a single overhead light.
I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. There’s a camera in the corner, its lens pointed toward the room.
I hesitate.
She notices, her hand sliding up my arm. “Don’t worry about that. It’s nothing.”
I glance at the camera again, but she pulls me toward her and kisses me.
Her hands move to my chest, sliding up to my shoulders, pulling me closer. When she grabs my cock, the camera fades from my mind. Everything does—almost everything.
She licks my eyes, and I shiver. “Who do you want me to be, honey?” Her hands move to my belt, and I let her. She pulls my pants and my briefs down and grabs my bare cock.
“Your mom? Your stepmom? Big sister?” With each suggestion, she strokes my cock harder.
“Selene,” I grunt. “I want you to be red-haired Selene.”
She giggles. “Then Selene, I shall be.”
She gets on her knees and takes my cock in her mouth. I close my eyes, trying to lose myself in the moment, trying to conjure Selene. Her lips. Her touch. Her voice.
The way her skin felt under my hands. Her hair smelled like vanilla, and her laugh used to echo in the quiet moments between us. I can even remember the sound of her moans.
My breathing quickens, my body moving on instinct as I grab the back of her hair and shove my cock deeper into her mouth.
The woman moans delightfully and keeps sucking me, gasping and gagging on my cock.
I pull the woman up by her hair and bend her over the bed. She lifts her dress, and I don’t bother pulling her panties. I just shift it aside and shove my cock in her.
“Oh yes!” she screams.
I close my eyes and give my hardest thrust.
Selene. Selene. Selene.
That’s all I can think about as I recklessly fuck this stranger. She orgasms twice before I feel myself drawing close to the edge. I pull out and explode over her panties.
When we’re done, she collapses onto the bed, laughing happily. She looks slightly crazy as she stares at me. I can’t meet her eyes.
I pull my pants back on and walk out of the room. I feel a hundred times worse than before I came to this club.
And as I walk back to the bar to keep drinking, I suddenly know the answer to the ‘Am I the asshole’ question.
Yes. I am the asshole.