orkingrl
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"I think you should take me home, Jimmy.", you say calmly, trying to hide the terror in your voice that is present in your wide-eyed expression like blood on snow.
"No, we're going to mine. You need to sleep this off and get your shit out of my apartment.", he snapped, making a sharp turn that makes your purse fall out of your lap.
"I thought you mailed most of my-"
He cuts you off sharply.
"You wanted me to fix things, this is me fixing things.", he scoffed.
"Happy birthday by the way.", he added, patting your thigh like a consolation prize.Series
- Part 3 of saccharine
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It was a horrible idea. The kind of thing mentioned in assemblies you'd giggle over with your friends, beaten into skulls with public safety announcements with grainy voices and shitty acting.
Stranger danger. Don't meet with strangers online.
But there you were, sitting in front of him in the mall food court on a hot July day, scared out of your mind but turned on.
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“Already after my money, huh?” he says with a bite of sarcasm under layers of pure disdain and hatred. He never tipped, even when he could. That’s why no one liked him as a regular; the other patrons were creepy weirdos, but at least they could slip a twenty or a ten or even a five, and all was forgiven. He was an asshole for free.
“Just starting a tab. Dennis got mad the last time I didn’t.” You reply softly as you wipe the counters, wanting to busy yourself from him undressing you with his eyes.
“Your manager can eat a bullet.”, he says, polishing off his beer in record time, and you slide him another one.
“I’ll pass the complaint onto him.”, you say, calmly.
He manages to bark out a laugh.
“You’re so professional considering you basically work at a glorified brothel.”
“It’s not a brothel. We don’t offer those kinds of services.”
“People pay extra money for microwaved food to have you flounce around in tiny shorts in the hopes of honking your tits when you’re not looking. You’re not exactly Mother Teresa.”
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"Got you a present.", he murmurs, gesturing to the bottle-shaped cardboard bag at your feet.
Once again, in your mind's eye, you imagine him poring over the bottles at the liquor store. Peach schnapps, vodka, whiskey, rum, tequila, and strawberry-flavored booze. Rough hands tracing over each surface, each screeching title, wondering what was best for his girl, what didn't make him look like a creep buying it, anticipating the eagle-eyed stare of the cashier.
You lean down, seatbelt protesting against you, tear open the bag like a kid on Christmas, and the image dissipates.
It's rum.
Cheap rum. The kind that men like him drink like water, and girls like you dilute with cola. The seal is already open.
You tuck the bottle under the passenger seat, try to hide your disappointment.
"Thanks.", you say gently.
"I fucking hate rum.", you think to yourself.
Series
- Part 4 of saccharine
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“Who’s the stowaway?”, he says, pointing at you with his thumb.
He’s sizing you up in a way that made you wish you had a bra on.
Stowaway, he says, like it’s his fucking house. Like he’s the captain of this stupid ship of a party house with more safety violations than you can count.
Series
- Part 2 of saccharine
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