I have no problem attracting men of all sorts, but I just want one decent guy, someone like him; My Arry. Someone to take care of me and understand that sex isn’t everything, that without it I am still worthwhile. Someone to see beyond the outer shell and treat me like I matter. Someone who doesn’t see a meal ticket or a quick fuck, or who isn’t abhorred by the past and all the dirty little things that asshole did to me.
I sigh heavily, head overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings and know I am just running my mind into more anxiety. Making myself feel heavier and more exhausted. Leaning back and resting my head against the padded seat back; the thumping noise and smoky atmosphere are grating on me and even this drunk. I just want to go home; for Arrick to find me soon and take me anywhere but here. I close my eyes to block it all out, stay sitting up so I am less of an obvious target and just start counting down the minutes till he gets here.
I am so done with this scene; this life and it’s never ending bullshit.
All I do is party, drink, and have fun. If I can even call it that anymore! It’s been losing its sparkle for weeks, after the initial burst of independence wore off, and sitting here for the millionth time, alone, tear stained, and exhausted. I wonder why I ever hungered after this existence.
Why I ever thought shallow friends and meaningless relationships were worth more than genuine love from my family. The emptiness inside of me, which pushed me down this path is still very much there, growing wider by the month and sucking me inwards like a black hole with no way out. You can’t drink away the sense of emptiness that plagues me, god knows I have tried. There is no curing this with a wild lifestyle anymore.
I dropped out of school because I didn’t see a point anymore, none of what I was learning interested me and I sat drawing clothes and colouring in doodles of shoes in every lesson. My head on getting out and going to max my credit card on whatever had hit the boutiques that week, day dreaming over the outfit I wanted to try out when I got home. Besides spending money on clothes, the only other thing which brought me joy was matching outfits for new looks, searching out shoes and accessories that made it all pop. Fashion is everything to me. I adore every aspect of it and love nothing more than customising things with my own influence, teaching myself to sew in my spare time. It’s one of the few genuine joys I seem to have.
I broached the subject of fashion school only once; my parents dismissed it as frivolous and pointless and told me that I have the brains to do so much more. As much as I love them, and I really do, it crushes me in a way, that they dismiss something I have a passion for and even though I have never sought their approval with very much of anything, it made me rip up the brochures I collected concerning fashion schools in the city. I threw them away with the trash and threw away any thoughts of doing anything about it, lashing out in my effortlessly juvenile way.
‘Hey sexy, can I keep you warm?’ A slurring male voice pours over me hotly as alcohol stench breath runs down my cheek. Repulsion and mistrust stirring fast, opening one eye, I catch the up close and personal view of a male in his late twenties, his hand coming to rest on my naked thigh, just below my vintage styled denim skirt. I feel my skin crawl immediately with that burn of an alien touch that is completely unwanted. I shove his fingers away impulsively, pulling my knees together as that abdomen lurching reaction hits hard and shift to the side away from him, outraged at the both the fact he dares to touch me and the fact he might ruin my skirt with his grubby as hell meat hands.
‘No! My boyfriend is on his way to get me and he’ll be pissed if you’re annoying me.’ I lie expertly, it isn’t the first time I have told men that Arry is my boyfriend. For the most part it works and when he shows up he plays the part effortlessly, always intervening no matter what he walks into and takes me away from it all. He has that scary look of a guy who will beat you to within an inch of your life, gorgeous enough to be plausible as my lover, despite the fact I know he keeps his right hook for the training ring normally and is a pussycat outside of it most of the time. He doesn’t really ever brawl in bars or jump to violence if he can help it, he’s too controlled for that crap. Even as a professional MMA fighter.
‘Whose annoying you? I just want to keep you cosy.’ He slides down next to me, pushing against my side invasively, making my body cringe and hooks his arm around the back of the seat over my head to angle in on me. The smell of stale sweat mixed with cheap aftershave and booze hits me in the face and makes me want to gag. I tilt my head away from him to get some space, and avoid the proximity with held breath, nerves creeping up and my body stiffening. Everything inside of me going into instant red alert mode and poised to attack should I need to do so.
He isn’t that bad looking, if I met him on the dancefloor, but he has the air of a pushy guy who probably doesn’t take no for an answer very often. I feel that usual pit of nausea hitting deep down and cross my legs protectively. Used to sleazy men trying it on in the past couple of years, eye rolling that they always seemed to seek me out no matter how hard I try to avoid exactly this. My body prickles uneasily and I can already feel that automatic tightening up of my limbs as I go into defensive fight or flight mode.
‘Go away, I’m not looking to get cosy with anyone, except him.’ I lift my phone, shaking it as though to demonstrate I have called him and this time keep it in my hand, in case I need to smack him in the face with it. I’m sobering up fast as adrenalin speeds up my heart rate, becoming more aware because I am completely uptight. I try to edge further away, but the booth comes to a halt at a low wall beside me and means I cannot get any more distance from him; he is all but hemming me in behind the tiny circular table. I feel my temper start to rise with the claustrophobia, the slow build of nervous anticipation that something is going to escalate and all my little bells going off.
‘I saw you here earlier, didn’t look like you had a problem dancing up close to some guy who left with a little brunette later. Pretty sure your boyfriend would love to know about that….. Or you could just open up and give me a few minutes of your time to keep quiet.’ He taps my knee suggestively and indicates I open my legs with a finger gesture, sneering smugly as I turn to meet his face in complete disbelief. I feel my heart lurch and plummet, knowing I can’t control the rage that is now crashing up inside of me noisily, hands growing clammy and breath hitching. One thing I can always count on, is that inner impulsive temper of mine to make a grand entrance whenever she sees fit.
‘FUCK OFF! You perverted fuck. You think you can blackmail me into screwing you?’ I’m on my feet in a flash, actions overtaking my brain, like always with me. Banging my ass on the table in my unsteadiness and managing to get out from behind it so I am stood in front of him. I know my butt is probably going to be left with a bruise, it’s throbbing from the impact, but I don’t care. Anger over takes my body with a fierce heat of sheer rage and eyes sting with unconcealed fury as I try to kill him with a death glare.
The guy slides up, towering over me with an even wider smile that makes me want to claw his eyes out, his stank breath hitting me in the face hard and I recoil a little. I stifle my instant gag reflex. He’s gnarly built, dark haired and darker eyed, he has the aura of slime ball oozing from every pore, all attractiveness gone now he is facing me down like I am some dirty little tramp. I feel rage and fear mingle to create one confusing ball of tension that affects every part of me, and yet, I know I won’t back down. I am crazily stupid in this way and couldn’t back down if my life depended on it.
Even when my sperm donor beat me to a pulp for fighting back and trying to stop him, I still did it. Still stood up to assholes.
‘I won’t tell him you were kissing some other guy if you let me fuck you over that table, it’s pretty secluded back here. Hell, will be our little secret.’ He tries to run a grubby finger between my exposed breasts in my clingy top, sucking in his bottom lip grotesquely. The nausea rises in my throat, burning with the sudden surge of it, the urge to punch him in his. I grimace, screwing up my f
ace in sheer repulsion, hunching my shoulders forward so my skin is just inched out of the contact and he barely grazes me. It still has the same effect of a full-on grope and makes me want to scrape my own skin off with a dull blade and burn it.
My rage and disgust tumble freely from every pore of my body, so sick to death with everything, including shit like this. That bubbling inner Sophie that I try so hard to control jumps out, and slaps the bastard hard in the face, with such a stinging hit that I feel it reverberate down my own arm as my skin burns with the sheer force of the contact. The hit sends him reeling off to one side, shocked and caught off guard, but he doesn’t fall. My eyes glued to what I have just done.
My chest heaving with the ferocity of it and then the sudden pang of absolute fear that I just made a stupid impulsive mistake and notched this up to a code red. My body is caught in a wave of icy coldness, sweeping over every limb and calming my jets, I know I pretty much just triggered a violent reaction in a guy who clearly had no issue with victimising women.
‘You little…’ He jumps to his feet, a hand rising aggressively as a storm rages in his eyes, scowling furiously and I can just tell I am about to be slapped back; although with male hands that will render me useless. His face is twisted in anger, moving fast, and I am suddenly powerless to do anything, paralysed in what feels like a time pause. It’s like my body is too stunned to react and even though I see it coming, I freeze. Bracing for impact and knowing I have no chance to get out of this. I have no idea what the hell is wrong with me and it’s like I see it all happening in slow motion.
His hand is blocked with lighting speed by a muscular black sleeved arm, appearing in front of my face in such an instant that I am still recoiling in slow reaction. The tall, muscular body, of a leather jacketed male, slides between us fully, shielding me behind him and I feel my whole inner self sweep with upmost relief. Arrick’s aftershave surrounds me like a sudden haven, a solid shield of pure muscle and a beacon in the dark. That wave of cold turns to tingles and internal shakes of sheer relief, my body instantly slumping and falling forwards to lean into him as the adrenalin turns me into a mess of jellified uselessness.
‘I swear if you don’t turn around and walk off right now, then you’ll be taking all meals from a tube pretty soon, Dickhead.’ Arrick snarls, that husky Carrero tone of the most perfect male voice I have ever known, like familiar soothing music that just makes you feel whole. Bristling with aggression and dwarfing the other man with his sheer build on alpha intimidation.
Arrick is hitting the six-foot one mark, maybe more nowadays, and his build has definitely gotten a lot wider and stronger since he has gotten older and taken up professional fighting. He is a vision of physical perfection that goes so well with the face of male beauty I could never find a fault in. Arrick has always been like the poster boy for my idea of the perfect man, I don’t see flaws or fault in any single tiny inch of him.
I creep and twist my fingers into the back of his leather jacket, sighing with relief and letting every ounce of every emotion seep away into silence with the calming presence he always is. Curling the hem in my palms and leaning myself softly against his back to breathe deeply; resting my cheek against him, the warm soft leather and body heat that is as familiar as his smell, seeping into me and calming me down, relaxing fully. Secure in the protective shield he always is, and using him to keep myself upright, since my legs have started shaking. I know I am safe, I can stop caring about anything, stop fending for myself and just let him take the lead, like he always does.
‘Your girlfriend’s a whore!’ The other man spits back; I lift my chin and glare through Arrick’s body, even though he can’t see me behind him and I don’t want him too. I feel Arry’s body tense, willing himself not to react, to keep his cool. I know without seeing his face he’ll be a picture of complete effortless intimidation. He is a master of composure and right now, despite all his fight cylinders firing fully, he is in full control.
‘Yet, she knocked you back! Says it all, Buddy!’ Arrick leans away from me and I know it’s to glare into the guys face and intimidate him more, all cool icy composure sweeping off in droves. One thing he mastered young in life, was how to assert authority and dominate when he needs too, and it never fails him. He has that same Carrero aggression as his father and brother, but yet, rarely has to go beyond a threat. A look is usually enough.
The other man slides off, tripping over the edge of the seat before running off like a scared rabbit. Arrick watches him disappear into the smoky atmosphere, deadly still for a moment. I feel that tremor of nerves surge through me, knowing that I am probably about to get the third degree and it makes my stomach ache.
He turns towards me slowly, catching my hand behind him and pulling it so I am drawn to face him, that mask of indifference firmly in place and eyes zoning in on mine intensely. Even though it’s dark, I know those hazel eyes will have more than a few flecks of green, it becomes more intense when he’s not relaxed, or pissed. My stomach flickers again, nerves making me uneasy, my lip finds its way between my teeth nervously as the hammering of my heart returns. His eyes go to the childish gesture and he knits his brows in irritation.
‘What was that?’ He frowns at me, all anger well hidden beneath that cool and calm exterior in which he excels, but I catch that tight tone under the silky deep depths of that smooth voice. Arrick never really lets much out publicly, he is a guy who hates drama and making a scene, hates being overly emotional too and has only gotten so much worse with it since dating Natasha, the queen of proper and prude, and practically an emotional cripple, publicly anyway.
‘A creep wanting sex.’ I shrug nonchalantly, trying to pass it off and not hint at how terrified or angry I was, seconds before. I still have this inability to ever let anyone see me as vulnerable and incapable in any way. Even him sometimes, well lately anyway. Good old Sophie self defence system at its finest.
‘Soph’s, this shit is getting old.’ Arrick tugs me with him by the hand, turning away without waiting for more of a response and that sinking ache hits me again; his manner is all hostile, even if to the untrained eye he seems fine. Entangling fingers snuggly with mine to secure me to him. Despite the nerves inside of me, I feel that warm tug of euphoria I always get with his touch; that familiar coming home feeling as he leads the way towards the dancefloor to exit this shithole.
I can only follow mutely as we are again enveloped by the worst of the body thumping music around us when we near the source of it, making my heart jump in time to the beat and worsens the nausea that is still lingering. I force myself to take long, deep and even breaths, to control it. My head starting to ache now the alcohol level in my blood has dwindled, even more with that tense little scene. Nothing helps sober you up like a nice little bit of nasty drama before bed.
He’s pissed, it’s obvious and not his normal soothing self with calming words and tissues at the ready. I watch his body moving through the crowd powerfully, parting a path for us easily and follow, feeling young and stupid. He has a knack for bringing it out in me when I have clearly misbehaved; feeling the vibes coming off him in droves that he is as fed up with this whole scene as I am. My lip trembles with a new wave of emotion, eyes stinging and I force it back down into the heavy ache in my chest, like a heavy ball of weight threatening to collapse my heart and lungs. Too tired to even fight it anymore.
When we get outside to the night air my legs seem to jellify even more, fresh air bringing back some of that swirling head mess that I thought I was losing. As he lets me go to walk ahead to the car, I stumble into the back of him clumsily, catching my heel on an uneven paving stone and have zero ability to avoid it. My stomach jolts and heart lurches with the sudden trip, catching his arm and the back of his jacket to stop myself eating dirt, by face palming the side walk. Arrick catches me, turning as I go down, as though sensing it, under my elbow with his fast reflexes, pulling me forward and into his arm. He wraps it around my back and waist snugly, lifting me against h
im like I weigh no more than a child.
That familiar body against mine brings only a sense of security; a stark contrast to every male on the planet, but never him. Arry is one of the few males who get to touch me without conditions, without reaction. Something even my adopted brothers don’t have full permission to do, and my dad is only slightly better. Arry never brings on any of the uneasiness or recoiling anxiety from within; from almost day one, so many years ago, he has been the only person who didn’t make me feel like they were invading my space or triggering the panic button. His touch brings only reassurance.
I mastered the sea of emotions when it comes to my male family touching me and often hide my reactions to cuddles and affectionate touches, to not upset them. None of them really know how I am deep down with human affections that should be normal. It makes me feel ashamed and broken, so I try to ignore it. Knowing that I should be able to accept a loving hug or a kiss on the cheek, without a sense of deep mistrust and a heavy aching thud in my gut. But with Arrick, I have nothing to hide at all. My complete trust in him means we could share a bed half-dressed and know he would never do anything about it. No fear, repulsion or discomfort in his touch at all. It is one of the reasons I have cried on his shoulder for years when I need support or real hugs.
He guides me to the car silently, his face deadpan; manner controlled and I can feel the distance between us like a crater, even though he’s moulded to my side. My heart has started gnawing warily, skin tingling with apprehension that something is off and different this time. I know that lately we haven’t exactly been getting on, for months now there has been a coolness. But right now, beside him, I can feel that something has changed in how he’s being.
Maybe he really has just had enough.
Nerves are sending my already fragile stomach into a washer like frenzy, hating that being in tune with him means I am so sensitive to exactly this kind of thing.
The Carrero Heart_Beginning_Arrick and Sophie Page 3