Beautiful Losers (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Remittance Girl

  The walk to the bus stop did me good. The weather was bitter, but the air was crisp and clean and felt good on my face. I sat down on the bench and waited for the next 38 to come along.

  I had a life, I thought to myself. I had things I wanted to do. I cared about music – I wanted to be good at it. This gig was going to be important, and that was where I should be focusing my energy. Hell, that’s why I had been boyfriendless in the first place. They were time sinks. They wanted your attention when you could least afford to give them any. I was doing my best to put the whole thing with Jean and Sebastian into some perspective, convincing myself that whatever I felt at that moment was going to wane with time and distance. In fact, my presence was only making things confused for them. I mentally forgave Jean for using me like a hole for hire – it had been the act of someone who’d been traumatized and desperate to keep what he most desired – Sebastian. I was glad he had got to try sex with a girl, and I was glad it had been me. But Jean was not wired for women – not really – and it didn’t matter how much I wished it otherwise. And Sebastian? I didn’t want to think about him. He was the man with the key to everybody’s door, but most especially to Jean’s. They’d work it out. Whatever lust/love thing I was feeling for him – I’d get over it.

  A shiny black Mercedes slid up to the kerb and stopped right in front of the bus stop. Couldn’t the asshole see it was a no stopping zone? The tinted window descended with a hum to reveal Sebastian.

  ‘I tried your office, but they said you’d left already.’

  I had just spent the last fifteen minutes purging the bastard from my soul. I was starting to think this was some sort of karmic punishment.

  I folded my arms and stayed seated. ‘I didn’t know you had a car.’

  ‘It’s not mine. It’s my parents’.’

  ‘Do you even have a driving licence?’ Considering how much alcohol he put away and how much weed he smoked, I was not confident about his reliability as a driver.

  ‘Of course. Get in, Shira.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever drive it then?’

  ‘Cabs are easier. You don’t have to park them. Come on, get in.’

  It occurred to me that this whole interchange was very un-Sebastianish. He hadn’t said a single dirty thing. ‘I’m going home to do laundry.’ I could see the bus, about eight blocks up. ‘My bus is coming.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ride.’

  ‘I’d rather take the bus.’

  He reached back and the rear door popped open. ‘Get in.’

  I looked from the approaching bus to the car and back. ‘You need to move your car. It’s in a bus zone.

  He smirked at me. ‘I can’t. My door’s open. If you get in and shut it, the bus will be fine.’

  ‘I’m not getting in your car,’ I said with determination, watching the number 38 stop at the lights a block away.

  ‘Well, then you’re certainly not getting the bus, because I’m not moving my car.’

  ‘The bus driver will honk his horn and scream at you.’

  ‘Fine. Let him. But he isn’t going to let you get on the bus in the far lane. You’re going to have to miss this one.’

  Nervously, I glanced down the street. The lights had changed and the bus was coming. As it neared the stop, it started honking.

  ‘Sebastian, move your fucking car!’ I yelled.

  ‘Get in!’

  I stood up and stomped over to the driver-side window. ‘Why are you doing this? You’re fucking up my entire life!’

  He grinned, but it didn’t last. ‘By making you miss the bus?’

  The bus driver had slowed to a crawl almost parallel with Sebastian’s car and was leaning on his horn, making a deafening sound. ‘Move your car, asshole!’ the driver yelled from his window.

  Sebastian’s face didn’t register any of it. He stared at me with an unreadable expression on his face. ‘Please, Shira. Get in the car.’

  ‘Why? Why should I?’ I demanded, feeling myself choke up again. Fuck. Not again, I thought.

  ‘Because Jean told me what he said to you last night. And what you said to him.’

  Pulling the bus away, still honking, the driver reached out the window and gave us the finger.

  ‘I know he did. I saw the make-up sex, or whatever it was.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the thing with his teacher, Shira. The other stuff.’

  Looking up the street at the disappearing bus, I gnawed on my cheek, trying hard not to cry. I’d assumed Jean wouldn’t share the rest of it with Sebastian, because it made him look like such a manipulative, scheming little fuck. But I’d been wrong. As usual.

  When I felt in control enough, I turned back to the car, gazing over the roof, unable to look Sebastian in the eye. ‘I don’t need sex. I need to do my laundry.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve made that pretty clear.’

  ‘If I get in the car, will you promise to take me home to my place?’

  ‘I promise. Now will you get the fuck into the car?’

  I climbed into the back seat and slammed the door. Closing my eyes, sinking back into the lush leather interior, I felt the car pull away.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  It stunned me that this man who I’d done such intimate things with didn’t even know my address. ‘One one six five Laurel.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  CYCLES

  ‘Thanks for the ride,’ I said, as we pulled up in front of my house. I let myself out of the car. We hadn’t said a word on the way there, a huge relief to me.

  Compared to Sebastian’s place, mine looked like slum housing. The paint on the siding was peeling off in large chunks, half the bushes in the front yard were dead, and the gate was open and hanging askew on a single rusty hinge. Idly, I wondered if Lizzie was home, but remembered she was on dayshifts that week. Good, I’d have the house to myself.

  A car door slammed behind me but I didn’t even bother to turn around. I’d been a total idiot for thinking he’d just give me a ride.

  I was halfway up the garden path. ‘You promised. I told you: I need to do laundry. I was serious.’ Glancing back, I saw him following up the walk.

  ‘Yeah, I heard that. I’ll help.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet you’ve never loaded a washing machine in your life. Don’t you have a slave to do that sort of thing?’

  He made an attempt to look offended. ‘Excuse me? Do you think I’d let a slave wash my D&G shirts? I can do laundry. I’ll help and we can chat.’

  ‘D and G?’

  ‘Dolce and Gabbana. What are you? Helen Keller?’

  ‘What are you? A fucking label whore? Anyway, don’t you have to dry clean those?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, but that isn’t the point. I can do laundry.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’ I dug in my jacket pocket for my keys. Giving the door a good kick to make the lock work, I let us into the house.

  To his credit, Sebastian kept his word. He helped sort the blacks from the whites and the colours, and made the three trips down to the basement because I only had one laundry basket. I dumped the clothes I was wearing into the last pile and pulled on the only clean skirt and t-shirt I had left.

  As I pushed the first load into the machine, Sebastian perched himself on top of the dryer, watching me measuring out detergent. The first load started, he followed me back upstairs.

  ‘Want some tea?’ I offered, feeling like I owed him something for helping.

  Glancing at his watch, he shrugged. ‘I guess it’s too early for cocktails? Sure.’

  While I made tea, he paced around the kitchen, then into the living room, prodding things and straightening my framed posters in the most irritating way. ‘Why do you live in such a shithole, Shira?’ he called from the other room. I almost spilled boiling water all over myself.

  ‘Why thank you, Sebastian. Don’t hold back on the compliments. Would you like some arsenic in your tea?’

  Settling the tray on the kitchen table, I sat d
own and waited for the pot to steep. He sauntered back into the kitchen and sat opposite, still glancing around in disgust, as if he’d catch something from the furniture. Admittedly it had all come either from dumpsters or the Salvation Army store, but it hadn’t killed me yet.

  ‘So . . .’ He hesitated, steepling his fingers as he watched me pour the tea. ‘About what Jean said to you . . .’

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Is it fresh?’

  I gave him a dirty look, slopped some into his cup and stirred it around noisily with a bent spoon.

  ‘About what . . .’

  Pushing the cup over to him, I completed his sentence. ‘What Jean said to me? Yes. I’m kind of upset that he told you about that at all.’

  He took a sip and grimaced. Fuck him, I thought, pouring a cup for myself.

  ‘Well, we had a little discussion this morning when we got up and found you’d abandoned us – yet again – it came out. I thought we’d better have a talk about it and remembered that you didn’t like it when I called you on your office phone.’

  ‘Hence the mobile. Actually, I’ve been trying my best to avoid them for years.’

  Waving away my remark, he took a deep breath. ‘Do I need to tell you that, regardless of what Jean thinks, I don’t consider you as a substitute for anything?’

  ‘No. I’m pretty sure you can tell the difference between pussy and ass,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, don’t be so literal. You always do that when you’re upset. You start reducing everything to its physical essence. You really do think too much, Shira.’

  I swigged my tea, feeling vicious. ‘And that irritates you because all the other women you’ve fucked don’t think at all?’

  He shrugged off the vitriol. ‘Shirakins, I didn’t really notice, or even care, whether the women I fucked thought, or what they thought about. As long as they were reasonably tight, and didn’t talk too much, I was pretty happy.’

  ‘You’re such a pig.’

  ‘Oink. Anyway, I’m a little annoyed at Jean right now. I’ll forgive him, of course, but at the moment he’s not my favourite person. Think about it: if it was insulting to you, think of what an insult it was to me?’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you.’

  Sebastian put his mug down on the table and smirked. ‘You are so fucking hot when you’re compassionate, you know that? It’s just – I don’t know how to describe it – really, really hot.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re going to start talking dirty to me, you have to leave.’

  He ignored that, but moved on. ‘Look, I don’t offer closet space to just anybody. I miss you when you’re not around. You’re not a substitute for Jean.’

  ‘I know that. I do. You don’t have to try and convince me of it.’

  Reaching across the table, his hand closed over my wrist tightly enough to make me yelp.

  ‘Now you shut up, Shira. Shut up and listen, because I’m only going to say this once. I’d never tell him this because he’s a shitload more fragile than you are. Jean is not a substitute for you, either.’

  ‘You’re hurting my wrist,’ I said petulantly. He eased his grip, but didn’t let go.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone who could see through all my bullshit like you can. And . . .’ He shook his head and withdrew his hand, staring down at the tabletop. ‘That’s new for me. And I find I like it. I want just one person in the world I don’t have to play dress-up for. And I like the three of us together. It’s like having . . .’

  ‘A family.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve never had real one. Don’t pull away from us just because Jean doesn’t know me as well as you do.’

  Just then, the machine downstairs squealed to a halt. That was my cue that the wash cycle had ended. I pushed myself to my feet and, instead of saying anything banal, traipsed downstairs to deal with the laundry.

  As I tossed the wet clothes into the dryer and put in a new load to wash, I heard Sebastian on the stairs.

  ‘I bravely expose my soft underbelly to you, and you walk out to deal with domestic chores.’

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious. Turning back to the washer, I added detergent to the new load. ‘You know, people always feel that they’re the ones taking a risk when they expose their feelings. Did it ever occur to you that it’s a risk to hear it?’

  He came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. ‘No, I hadn’t considered that. But it wouldn’t be a risk if it didn’t mean anything to you, so I guess that works in my favour,’ he said, and pressed his lips against my neck.

  A monstrous bolt of lust streaked down my spine. My hands trembled as I closed the lid and turned the noisy dial to start the next quick-wash cycle. ‘Please don’t do that. I’m begging you, don’t.’

  ‘Why?’ His voice was muffled against my skin. Hips pressed against me, pinning me against the washing machine.

  ‘Because I can’t think straight when you touch me. I don’t know what it is. My brain knows better, but my body gets really, really dumb.’

  A hand slipped under my shirt, fingers grazed and pressed my nipple, which – traitor that it was – stiffened instantly. ‘Your body is smart, and it really, really likes me.’

  ‘It does,’ I whispered. My heart thundered. Every inch of my skin woke up and reached, like climbing weeds, towards sensation.

  His other hand pulled at my skirt, until he could reach beneath it, running his fingertips along my inner thigh, settling on my crotch. ‘But you don’t?’

  I groaned, felt the warmth and the pressure of his hands, felt my cunt flutter and moisten almost immediately. ‘No, I do like you, Sebastian. I do.’

  ‘I know you do, Shira.’ He made a little noise in his throat as his fingers burrowed under the elastic of my panties and sank into my slit.

  ‘Then . . . why can’t we just go back to talking?’ My body twitched sharply as the tip of his finger found my clit, and began to tease the hood back. ‘Oh God, Sebastian, please. Let’s just go back upstairs and talk.’

  ‘But I express myself better this way.’ The hand caressing my breast moved. He used it to turn my face to his. ‘Kiss me.’

  How could I not kiss him? With his jean-covered cock pressing against my ass, with his fingers pulling shudders from my body, how could I not?

  I sucked at his lips until he gave me his tongue, then I fed on that. The fingertips of one hand traced the curve of my face as he pushed his fingers into my cunt with the other, the heel of his palm dragging over my clit.

  When we stopped kissing, he watched my face.

  The hand that wasn’t inside me tugged my panties down. They slipped around my ankles. Then I heard him unzip his jeans and felt my skirt sliding up over my hips.

  ‘I don’t have any condoms here,’ I whimpered.

  ‘Me neither.’

  I gasped as he pulled his fingers out of me, leaving what felt like a great gaping wound. ‘Oh, fuck! Just do it anyway.’ My voice cracked.

  ‘Now that,’ he said, pushing the front of my body down on the washing machine, ‘is something I’d never, ever do to you.’

  His hand, slippery wet with my fluids, slid over my ass, between my cheeks, leaving a cold trail of my juices behind. When the warm shaft of his bare cock pressed and nestled between them, I grabbed the edges of the machine, moaned and bowed my back, pushing against him, feeling him slide along the valley of my buttocks.

  Bending over me, he returned his hand to my crotch, pushed his fingers inside again, and began to stroke himself against me.

  ‘You have a lovely little ass, Shira. You’re just like a boy, but with more holes.’

  The warmth of his breath condensed against my neck, his fingers thrust into me with the same rhythm he used to stroke himself, the other arm wrapped around my waist, holding me still. And somehow the whole thing synched up as the washing machine went into agitation mode: the sound of hard mechanical grinding as it moved the clothes around.

  ‘Spread your legs, just a little more.’
When I did, I felt the length of his cock nestle deeper, and he sighed. ‘Oh, yes . . . Perfect, fucking perfect.’

  He was breathing fast, thrusting his fingers inside me so hard it almost hurt, and the palm he dragged across my clit with each stroke was brutal. I sensed, through the haze of all that pleasure, he wasn’t in control.

  Resting his parted lips against my cheek, panting raggedly with every thrust, his shuddering body pressed mine into the cold metal. Sebastian – who had probably finished last as a mark of control since adolescence – erupted against me, sending jets of wet heat up my lower back.

  It was the lack of artifice, the strange innocence of it that brought me, legs quivering, to orgasm. Fortuitous timing, because I wouldn’t have survived the spin cycle.

  He pulled me down onto my side on the bare concrete floor, arm still around my waist, hand still buried between my twitching thighs.

  ‘Fuck!’ he gasped wearily, fighting to catch his breath. He nosed his way through my hair and kissed the back of my neck. A deep, satisfied groan vibrated against my skin. ‘What am I going to do with you, Shirakins?’

  His spent cock softened against my buttocks. The proof of his pleasure cooled and oozed across my lower back. My mound felt raw from the friction and sweat from his palm stung against the freshly shaven skin. I reached down, shakily pulling his hand away.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you’re going to stay with us? Please say you will.’

  The washing machine made a little screech and then kicked into spin mode. I closed my eyes, feeling the chill of the concrete against my cheek, with the haunted, dusty smell of the old basement filling my head.

  It didn’t really matter what I said. In truth, I didn’t feel I had any autonomy. It was like being in the clutches of a really bad drug addiction. No matter that it wasn’t good for me; no matter how much I thought they’d be better off without me; no matter what the strange and twisted reasons that we all had for wanting to be together. I could rationalize it all I wanted, but my gut knew that I wasn’t going to be able to reach escape velocity. Not from this.