Decadence
by
Monique Miller
Copyright © 2013 by Monique Miller
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Definition of Decadence:
process of civilization's decline: a process of decline or decay in a society, especially in its morals
immorality: a state of uninhibited immoral self-indulgence
Decadence
The bass from the speakers thumped through the floor of club Oasis as if it had its own life force. I felt it from the soles of my feet, up to my chest, the rhythm a rerun, the voice booming from the sound system spewing lyrics I knew by heart. It was nice to feel something pumping through my body, under my skin, other than my own frayed nerves.
Chris was by my side, emanating more good vibes my way, more good feelings. He was the one that had ordered and paid for my drink, a cocktail the color of a summer sunset. When I asked him what it was he told me simply to enjoy it, his smile reassuring me that he believed I was going to love it. I had no reason to doubt him, I never did.
The concoction was both sweet and fiery, a mishmash of tropical flavors that were easy to identify--mango, papaya and scotch bonnet--with a base of alcohol, all of those flavors cohabiting in an effort to relax me, set my mind at ease. It tasted exactly like what I needed and it was making me feel just what I wanted, and what I wanted was to be in the moment, with Chris, feeling the music, feeling good, feeling nothing like I had during the last few days.
I’d had a bad week, the worst I’d had in a long time, which was saying something since I’d been deadlocked in a divorce for the past year and half that was trying to rob me of my sanity. My ex, who wasn’t technically my “ex” on paper as of yet, was making me suffer for initiating a divorce from being married to him, he was torturing me for wanting to get out of something I was regretting had ever taken place. I’d never regretted a relationship from my past and I was in new territory. I’d never regretted knowing any of my ex-boyfriends--I’d always thought of it all as a learning experience, times of my life that I could cherish the memory of for some reason or another. I’d never been with a guy that I couldn’t think back on with some fondness--after all, I’d been with them for a reason--but my still-husband that I no longer wanted to be my husband was making me see what the two of us used to have in a new light. I wish I’d never gone through with our lavish wedding; I wish I’d never said yes to his proposal of marriage; I wish I’d never anticipated a future of him during the two years we dated before we got engaged; I wish I’d seen him for what he truly was before I’d begun to invest my heart; I wish I’d never met the bastard.
I needed this drink, I needed this atmosphere--all the people surrounding me, dancing, the screaming conversations, the energy, and the lust, all of it--to take me away from my thoughts, release me from the mental anguish that I was feeling.
And I needed Chris to help relieve some of the tension. He was good at it, he was doing it, he was the first person I called, the first person I thought of who I could count on to be with tonight to wipe away the angst of the week before so I could focus on tackling the week ahead.
But right now I vowed to live it up, take my mind off my problems the best way I knew how.
“What are we doing tonight?” Chris leaned towards me and asked, smelling delectable. From his mouth came the commingling aromas of cinnamon and mint tinged with liquor, an almost heady combination that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. His body held the fragrance of Ultra Violet, his usual cologne that not many other men wore, but it was one he’d been wearing for years. His signature. Apart from his handsome face, his perfect body, and his smile that was completely contagious, the way he smelled alone was enough to make any woman’s panties drop.
Good thing I wasn’t wearing any to begin with.
I took another swallow of my drink and leaned in toward him and said, “I’m thinking tag team.”
He didn’t look fazed or surprised by my craving, and already his eyes were scanning the crowd, taking in the bounty of what we had to choose from. Whenever he asked me what we were doing later in the night there were usually only one of two choices: Either we were spending some one-on-one time back at his place or mine where we’d eat some, talk some, and we’d definitely end up taking out any frustration we had out on one another in the form of sexercise, or we ended up in a game of sexual tag team where the need for distraction from anything tame and normal was first and foremost. Tag teaming provided the escape we needed, the dominance that translated to power, it was about finding someone beautiful and screwing their brains out, and having our own minds blown in the process. As of late the one-on-one time was becoming less and less and we were both opting for the distractions on a regular basis. We knew enough about one another’s personal lives and dilemmas to not get offended about the other person’s need to be released from our own realities.
“How about her?” Chris nodded towards a brunette with short hair, bad skin piled with makeup on an almost rat-like face, but I had to admit she had a tight little body--the kind that had a tendency to catch a man’s attention and make them forget the girl in question even had a face unless she was giving him head, and even then only her lips, mouth and throat skills mattered; all the guy had to do was lie back, shut their eyes, and let her go to work. What face? They forgot she had one. Fucking men.
“Wow, I didn’t know you liked Doberman Pinchers,” I said casually.
“A tad harsh?” he raised an eyebrow at me.
“A lot honest?” I countered. “Don’t try and turn me into a villain.”
“Then don’t be evil.”
I stuck my middle finger up at him. Still unfazed as he went back to scanning the crowd, about a minute later he asked, “How about that blond?”
“How about no.”
“She’s kinda cute.”
“If you live in District 11 and you’ve forgotten what hot people actually look like.”
“She is not that bad!”
“If you don’t count the bad boob job, the bad lip job, the crazy eyelift, the fact that she bought her clothes two sizes too small from the swat meet, her Chiclets-like veneer job, and the fact that she’s probably only twenty-five and she’s had all that stuff done, then yeah, she’s alright.”
“Fuckin’ hell…” he breathed. “Moving on, then.”
“Please do,” I said as I roll my eyes at him.
He didn’t say anything for a while, sipped his drink, his eyes going from me to the people dancing around us, then back to me again. He was analyzing me and it was making me feeling just a tad bit uncomfortable.
Sometimes I forgot he’d gotten his psych degree years ago since he’d chosen a different field altogether and had decided to become a contractor. There was more money in contracting. Leave it up to him and he’d be teaching a Psych class at the local college rather than doing what he was doing, but he had a family to think of, to take care of, and he knew that sometimes it wasn’t about what you wanted to do, but about what you had to do.
Chris was a low key type of guy. Very down to earth, very real, this wasn’t easy to find in a guy with a face like his. He was the type of handsome that made women of all ages nearly break their necks just to get a second glance at his full lips, his hypnotic eyes, that perfect bone structure, that physique that made him look like he spent hours at the gym at least six days a week. Guys that look
ed like him were typically very vain or extremely gay, or both, and rarely was there the guy with looks like his that didn’t try and flaunt them by being in the spotlight and taking advantage of all they could get in the name of genetics. If Chris had his way we’d probably be together, sitting back at his place right now, watching whatever shows played on prime-time Friday night eating a pizza, relaxing or trying to relax.
It had been my idea from the start to go on these little hunts, these sexual preying excursions. These little hunting parties of ours got my adrenaline pumping; finding the perfect person to take back to the condo on the other side of town had become a sport I enjoyed. I’d had to talk him into it, told him if he didn’t like it we didn’t have to do it anymore. He’d liked it alright; now he was a more than willing participant in the game.
Tonight, though, I wanted him in charge of our pursuit. I wanted him to spot the prize, our prize, and bring them home. We were both in charge, but he knew I liked him to take the lead, exerting his power over me, over whoever we brought home with us. Every now and again I played the dominatrix, but that was a seldom occurrence, few and far times in between.
However, tonight I wasn’t getting much of a choice since all Chris was doing was choosing at random, thinking of his dick only and not taking my needs into account as he usually did. He was choosing women he would have a one night stand with instead of a girl we could both enjoy, someone worthy of hours at the condo across town we used for these little escapades of ours.
The condo was in the newest building that had been built only three years ago in the northern part of our city. The co-op was selective and had a wait list a mile long. It was an area and a building people coveted, that some would give limbs and blood for if that would get them bumped up even one notch on the list. It was a place that was insanely expensive which my husband--whom I no longer wanted to even look at--had bought with his pocket change without batting an eyelash. The condo had been a gift to me, but one he wanted back out of spite.
Chris’s mind wasn’t in or on the game tonight. His mind was obviously somewhere else, and it was beginning to (irrationally) piss me off.
“How about…him?” I motioned towards a tall solidly built guy with skin the color of dark chocolate, a smile that showed white teeth that gleamed attractively next to his complexion. He could’ve been a spokesman for Colgate. He was cute, not really my type, but I knew that mentioning another guy to Chris would snap his attention back to me instead of wherever else his mind was wandering off to. It was a dirty game to play with a person, but I didn’t mind getting filthy every now and again. In fact, sometimes dirty games were my specialty.
Chris frowned at me, but I was playing innocent.
“What? You always get to have your cake and eat it, too, along with ice cream; why not invite another guy along for the ride?” I took another sip of my drink, felt the burn of it, tasted its sweetness, savored all of it as I let my words sink in, watched them take effect on my companion.
“For one thing, you said to me a long time ago that having one dick in your face--and your bed--was more than enough,” he said looking into my eyes, as I could see a little anger boiling to the surface behind his. “Second of all, you’ll never catch me in or near a bed with another wagging dick, trust me on that.”
He was pissed at me now for bringing it up and that could go either way, but it wasn’t long--a few seconds at the most--before his expression softened just as quickly as it had hardened. Without saying another word, a minute later he grabbed my hand and guided me toward the stairs that led up to the manager’s office, but turned and went down the dark hall of the place and into out of the back exit that not many people knew about. Oasis was owned by a close mutual friend of ours, and even though we didn’t frequent the club, we still had certain privileges that other patrons did not, such as always having a spot in the VIP section when we actually did happen to show up along with knowing about little nooks and crannies and escape hatches that only a handful of people were privy to. That back exit didn’t lead out into an alleyway filled with foul smelling garbage, a concrete floor covered in piss, or section 8 housing for rats, but to a private garage fit for only about five vehicles. But it wasn’t parking space Chris was looking for, only a minimal of noise from the overly loud space we’d just come out from so we wouldn’t have to yell our private conversation over music and strangers.
Chris leaned against the wall and pulled me close to him, nearly holding me as he asked, “What’s up? And don’t tell me ‘nothing’ because you didn’t call me earlier to bring you here and then request a ménage a trios with a random person for ‘nothing’. Whatever is up with you is definitely something, so don’t lie.” He paused, caught his breath, looked at me like he wanted to rescue me from what it was that was bothering me. Before I could answer, he added, “It’s Scott, isn’t it?”
I let an airy laugh holding not a shred of humor to it. “Like you wouldn’t believe, and not like you, or anyone else, has never seen him before.”
“What is it now?” Concern etched his words and his features.
Suddenly it was just us. The world had fallen away; the people living it up in Oasis may as well have been a planet away. I appreciated his concern. It was both welcome and needed. His right hand placed firmly against my lower back was the anchor that I felt that told me he was with me all the way. He was a listening ear, the shoulder to cry on, the man that knew me better than anyone. I trusted him. I trusted him a little too much and we both knew that, but I would have it no other way.
“He’s claiming fraud,” I rubbed my neck, felt the knot of nerves in it. Saying it out loud made it real. “He’s saying that I misled him into thinking I’d wanted a family as much as he did.”
“Is it true?”
“He’s half right,” I admitted. “The thing is, I still want a family, I still want a baby one of these days, I just don’t want any of that with him.”
“You broke his heart.”
“He fucked with mine,” I retorted. “I guess we’re both getting what we deserve if you’re placing blame.”
“No, no. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not placing any blame. I’m just saying…what did you expect?”
“Not this circus,” I told him. “It’s been over a year and a half of this bull, of him fighting me. I just want it to end. I want it over.”
Chris paused, and then he asked, “If this fraud thing goes through, what will you get?”
I felt like laughing and crying all at once, the urges of a crazy person. “Not a damn thing. Squat. Shit. Zero. Zilch--”
“I get the point,” he said holding up his hand.
“No, I don’t think you do,” my throat tightened, but I’d cried enough over the past two years to last a lifetime. My past relationship that wouldn’t let me breathe didn’t deserve anymore of my tears. I refused to let the thought of Scott ruin the smoky eye effect that had taken me a half hour to perfect by making me cry. Fuck him. “He is worth sixty million alone; his family fortune is just a little over a billion. And their corporations….don’t even get me started on them.” I shook my head and shut my eyes wishing I could wish away all my pain and hurt feelings. “All that money, and what happens? What does he do? After he had our prenup thrown out of court on some so-called technically, which I didn’t even know he could do, my lawyer told me to go for half. I refused. I didn’t want a long drawn out battle, I wanted to be the bigger person and show him that I just wanted what I thought I deserved for staying with him as long as I did after finding out what I had about him.
“I went for ten million and the house. He fought me on that till I reduced it to five million and told him he could keep the house. Then it was two million and he acted like I was crazy. The last amount I threw at him was a mil. One million is nothing to him and he knows it. Settling for a million should’ve been a relief. He paid more than that keeping us married for this long.”
“He didn’t want to let you go.”
“W
hose side are you on?”
“Yours…baby. Always. But,” he scratched his head, looked like my dilemma was his dilemma, like we had both shared a week from hell. “You stood by his side during that trial. Before that, you were happily married, or something close enough to it. I think he was looking for forgiveness.”
“Trust me, he’s one man that doesn’t deserve to be forgiven,” I heard the darkened tone of my voice and I saw Chris’s expression change as well.
“I take it the whole story of what happened hadn’t been on the news.”
“Not half of what he’d done and who he really is was on the news.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
That was the thing about people. Boyfriends didn’t tell their girlfriends about all their demons, girlfriends had their deep dark secrets and their lies, but once you were married, once you became husband and wife, I used to think all bets were off. Maybe I hadn’t known everything, but I’d believed I’d known enough when I’d said ‘I do’. I was more wrong than I’d ever thought possible.
Scott’s demons had come out of the depths of the area of Hades they had buried themselves in and bit us both in the ass, but his family not only had money, they had connections. They knew powerful people in high places. They had been covering up enough of their family’s dirt over the years to overflow a landfill, and my (hopefully) soon-to-be ex’s troubles had been nothing. They’d covered up the mess that could’ve tarnished their family’s good name, but the trial had been inevitable. He’d gotten off, though, and that was always the bottom line.
Chris talked about a broken heart, but I seriously doubt my ex ever had one to begin with. I knew things about him that could crush him, obliterate his reputation, ruin his business. I thought he would’ve been happy to pay me off, have me sign a gag order, and never see me again, but that was the thing. He knew I wouldn’t talk. He knew me better than I cared to think. He’d been my husband, and I still felt some sort of loyalty towards him.
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