9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
You’re a selfish asshole.
Those are the words I hear in my head when Monroe and I finish, when I eventually come down from my euphoric high. But they’re not my own. The voice that says them is distant, yet familiar. I try to slash at the unwelcome intrusion, but like trying to grasp a puff of smoke, it’s no use. Heaviness makes my chest sting, and I realize what I’ve done. Monroe and I just slept together. It was the culmination of bumping into her at the club, this whole fucking day, and the alcohol thrumming through my veins.
Instead of helping distract me from the reminder that this day brings, I stumbled onto something else. Something I can’t explain. More than anything, I want to do it again. But I can’t, not with her. Not when we agreed it is supposed to only happen once. And it needs to stay that way. Some people are destined to remain alone, unattached, and I fall into that category. Living a solitary life ensures that my actions only affect me and the fallout is minimal. There’s no one else to place the blame on.
My mind feels like it’s been through a blender, and I’m not able to focus on anything. If I succumb to my baseless urges, if I let myself have her again and I forgo every ounce of control I have over the situation, I’m uncertain I’ll have the strength to hold back. I’ve become a master of the no-strings-attached scenario. It’s pathetic to say, but I’ve perfected it at this point. Feeling nothing is better than feeling everything. Every miserable, painful thing.
So I’ll keep my distance from her and keep whatever residual lust I am holding onto to myself. I’ll continue to be the cold, detached man Monroe expects me to be. Because being anything else, feeling anything else, is off the table.
When I slip out of her, it’s like I can feel every bead of sweat on my skin, every time my heart bangs against my chest. The sensory overload is too much. Everything she represents feels like too much. I head back inside to the bathroom and scrub myself clean. Soap and water don’t feel like it will be enough, but I scrub and scrub and scrub until I think the layers of skin will peel off.
No matter how many times I think I banish that dark, turbulent feeling inside me, it comes back every time. The guilt threatens to consume me. Whenever I think I’m moving forward, the black cloud settles back over me, telling me I never will. It’s all an illusion. The pain, the happiness, the memories. They all meld together, and it’s suffocating.
I don’t know how I manage it, but I change into fresh clothes, which helps ease my mind a bit, and fill a glass with whisky. I head back out to the balcony to find Monroe still out here and looking at me like they all do. And I have no choice but to swallow down whatever I’m feeling and play up who I am in her eyes.
I already feel like a piece of shit. I might as well act like the jerk she’s used to. So, instead of sweet words and comfortable company, I settle on indifference.
“You’re still here,” I say, not being able to meet her eyes. “I thought you were leaving.”
My aloof attitude works as intended. Monroe leaves, but my desire to have her under me never does. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I get her off my mind? I thought this would work.
By the time I finish my drink and my sulking, it’s nearly three in the morning. When I step through the sliding doors, Monroe’s intoxicating scent hits me, and my mind races like she’s still here, not giving me a moment to catch up. My fist clenches my shirt, my other hand drifting to my stomach, and I feel Monroe’s phantom lips on me. I jerk back and let my eyes close. My skin feels volcanic. The sensation is that intense.
For as much as my body wants to claim her, my heart can’t. Shame crystallizes every vein; it washes over me in blinding waves and leaves me numb. If I’m not careful, if I don’t keep Monroe far, far away, it’ll be the end of everything. She hates me. She’s stated that multiple times, and one mindless fuck won’t change her opinion of me—won’t change my opinion of myself.