Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1)

by Dunning, Rachel

  I want to argue with him. I want to say some bullshit like How the fuck can you tell?

  But it's easy to tell. And I know it. You tell it by skin tone, slang, body language, general attitude. Any guy worth his balls is able to tell the bimbos from the good girls by the time he's seventeen.

  And any asshole who thinks "Good Girl" is something negative has been hooking up with all the wrong women...

  "I can't argue with you there," I say.

  I wait for it, wait for the lecture. I wait for him to tell me it's time to move on, time to forget Zoey and let her rest in peace, that shit happens and that life keeps going, whether you go along with it or not. I wait for him to tell me that even though I lost my fiancé, he lost a sister. Instead, he says, "You gonna see her again?"

  "Who, the brunette?"

  "Who else?"

  I was thinking so much of Zoey that when he'd said "her," I got a little confused. I shake my head and run my hand down my face once. "No," I say. And then I stare at my beer.

  He drinks a few sips of his, lets me stew in my thoughts for a bit.

  The fucking bastard has gotten good at handling me.

  "You should," he finally says.

  I can't reply. Not right away. I feel the fear hit my chest like a howitzer. I down the beer to the end. "Maybe I'll call her...as a friend. But nothing more. And not right away." I gesture to the bartender for another one.

  Frankie stays silent. I catch him eying the ring on my finger. I put my hand in my pocket. "I'm not taking it off!"

  He shrugs. "I didn't tell you to."

  Fucking asshole. Reverse psychology bullshit.

  I play with my ring.

  Nonchalantly, he says, "I noticed you weren't wearing it when you were with her at the pub."

  Damn, he's getting good.

  -2-

  After Frankie leaves I decide to go past Vinni's and get a slice of Pizza. Not because I'm particularly hungry but because I've suddenly got the idea that maybe it's time I pick up on an old hobby.

  I don't recognize the guy behind the counter when I get there. Is he even Italian?

  "Ciao," I say.

  "Ciao."

  I say, "Posso avere una fetta pizza, per favore?"

  The dude smiles at me and says nothing so I can't tell if my grammar was correct. But he hands me a slice of pizza which is what I wanted so I couldn't have been too far off.

  I get outside and chew the cheesy triangle amidst smog so thick that my nose itches.

  I haven't spoken a word of Italian in years.

  So what? That doesn't mean shit. And it sure doesn't mean I need to freaking call her!

  CHAPTER 12

  -1-

  G.

  Nov. 12, 2013 — Tuesday, Late afternoon

  I make it to Thomas's apartment building, which is only a few minutes' walk from where I was, and ring the bell. Although he doesn't live in as fancy an area as Axle showed me by the Old Opera House, he definitely lives in a more affluent spot of town.

  I briefly think back to Axle's sarcastic joke about him living in a "less affluent" part of town...

  Thomas buzzes me up and I go to his apartment door on the twelfth floor. When he opens the door, two things happen:

  I stare open-mouthed at him for just a second too long.

  I stare open-mouthed at the skyline visible from his apartment for just a second too long.

  "Come in," he says, gesturing for me to enter with a sinewy arm.

  The accent is not German, not English...

  He's got black hair with bounce and green eyes which look like they belong on a clothing model. His face is perfectly chiseled and straight-jawed...like that of a clothing model. He's got on a waistcoat...but no shirt. And his golden abs—which look like they belong to a model wearing no clothes—are staring at me as he eases away from the door.

  "You are Brooke's friend?"

  French. That's the accent. Strongly accented French.

  "Yes. And you are not German."

  "No. I move 'ere from France when my girlfriend at the time ask me to."

  "Oh..." I look around for the aforementioned girlfriend.

  "Yes, then, when we break up, I decide to stay. And, 'ere I am."

  "Oh..." I reign in my hormones. "But Thomas is a German name."

  "Yes, my fahzzer is German. He is also an asshole. My muzzer is French. She live in France. They divorce when I am little. So I am cursed with German name."

  "I see." Sore spot, I guess. I change the subject. "Um, Thomas, you have an unbelievable view from here." I'm thinking of photos. I'm thinking of money. I'm thinking of rent. I'm thinking I need to come up with a portfolio of the most damn incredible photos anyone's ever seen, in less than two weeks.

  I'm thinking I need to grab every opportunity presented to me. And I'm thinking I need to make opportunities if there aren't any.

  "I know. I often look at view while sitting here on my couch, drinking glass of wine." His accent is like warm velvet.

  I chuckle internally at how it makes my heart flutter. Because I know that shit is bullshit—accents and abs and beautiful eyes and rumbling voices. Icing on the cake.

  The cake is the thing.

  But it's still nice to remember a time when "love" was as simple as that: A sexy accent, a hot body.

  Boy, life was simple in those days.

  I relish in the view for a second—the view of his body, that is. I figure I deserve a little indulgence after all I've been through.

  He walks past me and his cologne fires up endocrinal reactions I haven't felt in the better part of a year.

  "Is why I choose this apartment—the view," he says.

  The view belongs in a penthouse. You see the entire Frankfurt skyline and even some of the river behind a few low buildings. There's also a direct shot of a shopping street that must be a photographer's Shangri-La at night with all the lights.

  "Is better from the rooftop. You want to go?"

  I do. But not now. That chopped mammoth tree in front of that statue is calling me... "Actually, yes, but not right away. I mean, I have to take another shot first—"

  "Is no problem. Anytime." He smiles felinely. And I feel a little uncomfortable because it's so clear that Don Juan here is being so openly, well, Don Juan.

  He looks so young. Yet, what is he? Twenty? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?

  I'm twenty-two.

  When did I start feeling so old?

  When did I start looking so old?

  He definitely lives the good life: An open-plan apartment with a sitting room that stretches into a marble-look kitchen. Flatscreen TV, leather couches. There's one door I can see on the left of the kitchen section, and I guess it leads to the bathrooms and bedrooms.

  "Um, could I come over tonight? I mean, just for the photos." I throw that last point in there just so there's no confusion.

  "No problem. I 'ave no plans." He leans against the kitchen island.

  I wait. Nothing. "Um, the camera?"

  He moves away slowly, all under control. "Of course." He heads through that same door I saw earlier and starts speaking, but I can't hear him.

  "I'm sorry, what was that?" I still can't hear what he's saying and I move even closer.

  Still nothing, just mumbling.

  I poke my head in the door and wish I hadn't.

  The door leads directly to his bedroom. Red satin sheets cover his spacious bed. The lights are dimmed. There's champagne open on a night-table with two glasses.

  I quickly look away and step back out.

  He sees me.

  He brings out a camera bag and a tripod. Gives both to me.

  I look away from him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to look—"

  "Is no problem at all. You want a tour of the apartment?"

  I almost laugh at the hackneyed line, said with all the confidence of success in the world. The guy must sure get a lot of it...

  "Um, no thanks."

  "Maybe later."

  I want t
o say, No, not later either. But I need the shots. I don't have time to go looking for other locations and the view he has from here is heaven!

  "Maybe," I say.

  "If you need to do studio shots, I have another room there"—he points—"which doubles up as a studio. And lighting." He points to the other side of the kitchen so I assume there's another door there.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder and I flinch back without meaning to. He keeps it there. Squeezes. "See you later."

  I swallow. "Right."

  I walk out.

  CHAPTER 13

  -1-

  A.

  Nov. 12, 2013 — Tuesday, Later afternoon

  My phone hasn't rung once today. Usually I'd be over the moon about it. But not today. The talk with Frankie set me on edge. I need something to do.

  The day-job always gets slow as winter approaches. Roofs get too slippery.

  I twist my ring on my finger. Then I take it off. I look at the inscription: Zoey. That's all. No date. "What would you do, baby?" I say to it.

  It doesn't reply.

  I put it back on my finger. I like the way it feels. It's incredible how many girls get turned on by it. All the wrong girls. Which, for me, is all the right girls.

  Did Frankie give this Gen chick my number?

  And why didn't I get hers?

  I know where she lives.

  Would it be creepy to walk on by and say hi?

  Yeah right, after the ass I made of myself yesterday.

  "Ah, fuck it," I say out loud. A girl like that is better off without me.

  I know that.

  I might not know a lot, but that I'm dead certain of.

  I tap my fingers on my knee.

  I tap my foot on the ground.

  I decide that I'll go on over to the American Sports Bar again. I slap on some denims and brush my teeth.

  When I get there I spot the target: Reddish, African hair, straightened slightly; legs so long they could replace Jack's beanstalk.

  I lean over the bar, look at her. Her back is to me. She turns.

  They always turn. Sooner or later, they turn.

  I twirl my ring, look up at her.

  She grins.

  Her skin is dark. She's hot. She's wearing shorts so high they could double up as a collar. In this weather? Yip, perfect target.

  She catwalks over to me. Her lips are appetizing, full, brown and deadly. Her eyes are as black as a deep ocean. Her eyelashes like ferns. Her tits perfectly round. Not an ounce of fat on her. Bad girl tits. Bad girl legs.

  My kind of girl. The kind that won't care an ounce about me when it's over. The kind that doesn't ask too many questions. The kind that I don't feel the need to talk to.

  The kind that won't get hurt by me because she's just as likely to throw me out on the street as I am her after it's all over.

  She puts a hand on my shoulder, looks briefly at my ring, doesn't even ask about it.

  See what I mean?

  My cock is hard already.

  "Order yourself a drink," I say in German. "On me."

  She smiles. She knows the procedure, knows the steps.

  She orders two Mai Tais. One for herself, and another one for herself. She switches to English because, no matter how well I speak German, the undercurrent of my American accent makes people think I don't speak shit of it.

  Fine by me. I don't plan on doing much talking to the babe anyway.

  I move my hand over to her ass and rub it up and down. She stretches it out for me.

  Although my hand is rubbing this dark diva's skin my mind is elsewhere... I'm thinking of my life, a future, dreams I once had.

  Goddamnit!

  "Bartender, whiskey. Neat." He brings it to me. I down it. "Keep 'em coming."

  Mai Tai gal downs her own drinks and licks her lips slowly.

  There's no turning back now. My hormones are too far over the edge.

  Best to make this quick.

  I call up the bartender and pay him with a hefty tip. I don't have time to wait for change now.

  I grab the broad by the hand and pull her outside. She giggles. We walk on over to behind a building that's shadowed enough to get on with it. Not the best spot, but this is gonna be quick.

  She's breathing heavily already, smiling widely. Sweat drips off her brow and a stray light makes her forehead gleam enticingly. She's incredibly seductive. So what exactly is she doing wasting her fucking life away in bars and getting laid by guys like me?

  Not my business.

  I push her against the wall. Her breathing is so deep I'm afraid that alone will alert someone around the corner.

  I push her left leg open, undo her shorts. She shucks out of them. No panties. She's so beautifully wet that I'd love to lick her clean.

  But I also wouldn't love to.

  Why am I doing this?

  She wants it. She grabs me by the shirt and pulls my lips into hers.

  I can't do this. I can't...

  I hear voices. "Someone's coming," I say.

  "They'll never know. It's dark here."

  The voices grow louder. A man, a girl, laughing.

  The dark-skinned hottie unzips my pants. I'm ready to burst I'm so freaking horny.

  And yet it feels wrong.

  "Damn it!" I say.

  "What is it, baby?"

  "Nothing."

  I pull out my wallet and rubber up.

  And I stick my cock in her. Hard and fast.

  I look away. I feel so low for some reason, bottom of the barrel.

  She whimpers. I pump her. "Oh, yes, Oh, Axle..."

  How does she know my name?

  "Fuck me, Axle. Fuck—"

  She orgasms. Her primal groans echo across the city-block and her vag clenches and tightens around my cock so that, physically, she feels like a plush blanket squeezing it.

  Physically.

  Emotionally? This is no way for me to live my life.

  I keep doing her. This is almost over. She finishes coming, drops her head onto my shoulder while I slam into her.

  The physical need is too much for me. I'm so engorged that I need to explode but somehow it's not happening. I fuck her and fuck her and fuck her and move and pump and—

  My seed empties out, blocked by the jacket on my boy. I groan quietly, too aware of the environment. Blood flows back away from my shaft as more of my semen leaves me and I sigh with pleasurable relief.

  The last bits of it escape.

  God, that actually felt good. Physically good. The temporary heroin of after-sex euphoria.

  It still feels good as my body releases endorphins or serotonin or whatever the fuck it is that gets released after a good, solid screw.

  I'm in a cloud.

  And then I hear the siren.

  -2-

  I wanna run, but my cock's still in this babe. And that just wouldn't be right.

  "Scheisser!" she says, and looks dead-ahead behind me.

  You can say that again.

  I see the blue cop lights against the concrete wall behind her. I hear the cops coming closer. I cover her as best I can while she dresses. She looks mortified.

  She gets her shorts back on.

  I zip up my denims. Condom still on. No ways I'm gonna be staring at this pig with a freaking used rubber in my hand. There's only so far a man can go in the levels of personal humiliation.

  I turn.

  The cop slaps cuffs on me.

  She and I are off to the big house.

  -3-

  German cops are pretty cool, overall.

  When you've done something wrong, they're stoic.

  When you haven't done anything wrong, they're stoic.

  In a gun fight, I imagine they're probably stoic.

  They question us for a bit and I see the officer suppress a smirk while he does it. We'll be the talk of the station for the night, or the week, or forever. Nonetheless, I'm glad they're asking about my sexcapades and not about anything else I do for cash. No, non
e of it's illegal, but cops have a funny way of looking at things in my experience.

  Well, technically, beating dudes up is illegal... But none of those dudes ever press charges. That's the fun of it.

  The almost-buzz-cut cop then fires a question that wipes the almost-smile off my face.

  "Are you married?" he asks.

  "Um, no."

  He looks at my ring the way that cops do when they smell a lie. I can see the next question coming up as if it were written in neon lights on his forehead.

  "You wear a ring," he says.

  Observant.

  "So do you," I say.

  Pause. He looks down at his clipboard. No more questions about it.

  Good man.

  -4-

  I walk the babe home and find out her name is Natalia. She was born in Germany but her mother's Namibian. Her granddad, German, moved to Namibia when it was still called South West Africa. She waitresses for a living and gets "involved with all the wrong men."

  Yip.

  She looks stressed out and I tell her we'll just get a fine and no one will know about it.

  "How much will it be?" she asks, standing at the steps to her building.

  I shrug. "A few hundred?"

  Worry fills her face like nimbus clouds in winter. It's a lot of money for a waitress.

  "Well," she says, "it was a great fuck." She smiles.

  This is getting too close for me. Too much communication.

  "Yes. It was good."

  "Can I see you again?" she asks.

  I think of what a waste of time it would be for her to be with a guy like me. I think of what a waste of time it would be for any girl to be with a guy like me. "I don't think so."

  "What's your number?"

  "I don't give my number out."

  Long-legged Natalia leans against the doorjamb. Yellow-orange light shines behind her from a solitary lamp. She cocks an eyebrow. "Am I just supposed to wait around for you to come and visit me?"

  I look at the street. Noisy cars rush by. "I don't do relationships."

  "Because you're married."

  "No, I'm not married."

  "But you wear a ring."

  I almost tell her. Almost. But I quickly realize it's not Gen. With Gen my mouth just blabbers and answers questions without me thinking. Around other girls, I see I can still stop myself. It's much more comfortable that way.