The Player and the Pixie
Page 5
It could have been my imagination, but I felt his eyes on me the entire time and I may have quickened my unsteady pace until I was safely beyond the privacy door. I hated that he got to me. I was supposed to be the calm one, the enlightened one, and yet with just a few carefully chosen words he’d made me want to throttle him. I now totally understood Ronan’s hatred for the guy.
I always tried to believe everybody had the potential to be good, to be redeemed. But this guy might just be the one to prove me wrong.
Yes, as far as I was concerned, Sean Cassidy was completely, irrevocably, and unequivocally irredeemable.
Chapter Two
There are three certainties in life, death, taxes, and the cold dread of attending another family gathering.
- Sean Cassidy.
*Sean*
Somebody needed to explain to me why mobile phone cameras made that click sound whenever a photo was taken. Could you not see a photo had been taken? That was like adding sound effects to a salt shaker. Clearly, I saw that my food was being salted. I could taste the salt. I didn’t require additional sensory information alerting me that my food had been salted.
I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I was awake. I could hear her snapping pictures of me, so I decided to wait until she finished. No need to make things uncomfortable.
Hopefully I didn’t have drool crusted at the corner of my mouth, and she hadn’t drawn on my face. If memory served, she hadn’t seemed the sort. Those pictures were trophies for girls like her.
I felt her still-naked body slither along mine, and her hair brushed against my bare shoulder. From the angle of her posturing, I deduced she was now taking selfies with me . . . while I slept.
No. That’s not distressing at all. Perfectly normal behavior. Just pose with the unconscious man, nothing strange about it. I’m sure plenty of people enjoy having their picture taken while they’re asleep . . .
Bloody weirdo.
She leaned away, likely to scroll through her trophy pictures, and I felt her shift on the mattress into a sitting position. Her long fake nails clicked against her phone’s touch screen, the sound incredibly irritating.
That was my cue to exit.
I stretched my arms, careful to avoid touching her, and made a big show of arching my back before I opened my eyes. This gave her plenty of time to hide her phone if she felt guilty about being an opportunist. When I opened my eyes, I avoided making contact with hers. I’ve found it’s best to set expectations on a proper course as early as possible in a non-relationship.
“Well, good morning handsome.” She slid into the sheets again, her claws coming to my torso.
I glanced at her hands. No sign of the phone. She must’ve hid it in her bedside table. This was a relief; the less inconspicuous of her kind often requested more pictures over breakfast. The answer was always no. I never ate meals with the help.
I hadn’t been drunk last night when I suggested we party. I’d been cold. Ireland is cold year round, even in the summer. And I am likewise cold, unless I can locate a warm body and share her bed.
The woman snuggled against me. Her skin had been soft last night, but now—bathed in daylight—it felt like sandpaper. I peeled her from me, no longer cold, and then sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed sleep from my eyes.
“What time is it?”
“Just past seven,” she purred, her nails scratching lightly down my back.
“Stop touching me. Where the feck are my pants?”
She jerked her hand away with a little gasp and was mercifully silent as I scanned the room.
Sex was usually the price I paid for a night of warmth, which made no sense because my nameless partners always faked it, even when I ate them out. They faked it loudly, and with enthusiasm, and sometimes with impressive creativity. But faked nevertheless.
Just once, I wanted to see and hear and feel a woman truly orgasm. Just. Fucking. Once. I’m beginning to doubt women are capable of climaxing. The great female-orgasm myth . . .
“No need to be such an arsehole.” She’d recovered the ability to speak. I wished she hadn’t.
I was going to be late for Sunday breakfast with the family if I didn’t get up and out. If I missed breakfast then I’d be subjected to months of passive-aggressive reminders of my tardiness for that one time, and be on the hook for a year’s worth of favors.
“I need to piss.” I stood from the bed and crossed her tiny Dublin flat to the door I assumed was her toilet, finding my pants on the way and pulling them on. I shut and locked the door—just in case she had any ideas about snapping more pictures—and did my business, rinsing off her toothbrush with Listerine before brushing my teeth with it.
I had a ritual when I cleaned up after a night of inane debauchery. Disinfecting the toothbrush, going through the medicine cabinet for aspirin, washing my face with their soap—as long as it didn’t smell of flowers or food. One-night stands were worth it just for cosmetic product discoverability.
About six months ago I shagged a woman and used her facial cleanser. Great stuff, unscented, gentle but left the skin thoroughly cleaned. I couldn’t tell you her name or what she looked like, but I could tell you she used a cleanser named Simple to wash her face. I knew this because on my way home, I’d stopped by Boots and picked it up in bulk.
“What are you doing in there?” Last night’s warm body tested the door handle.
I ignored her question and smelled her soap. It smelled like cake. I placed it back on the tray, unused. Why do women want to smell like cake?
I always tried to believe everybody had the potential to be good, to be redeemed. But this guy might just be the one to prove me wrong.
Yes, as far as I was concerned, Sean Cassidy was completely, irrevocably, and unequivocally irredeemable.
Chapter Two
There are three certainties in life, death, taxes, and the cold dread of attending another family gathering.
- Sean Cassidy.
*Sean*
Somebody needed to explain to me why mobile phone cameras made that click sound whenever a photo was taken. Could you not see a photo had been taken? That was like adding sound effects to a salt shaker. Clearly, I saw that my food was being salted. I could taste the salt. I didn’t require additional sensory information alerting me that my food had been salted.
I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I was awake. I could hear her snapping pictures of me, so I decided to wait until she finished. No need to make things uncomfortable.
Hopefully I didn’t have drool crusted at the corner of my mouth, and she hadn’t drawn on my face. If memory served, she hadn’t seemed the sort. Those pictures were trophies for girls like her.
I felt her still-naked body slither along mine, and her hair brushed against my bare shoulder. From the angle of her posturing, I deduced she was now taking selfies with me . . . while I slept.
No. That’s not distressing at all. Perfectly normal behavior. Just pose with the unconscious man, nothing strange about it. I’m sure plenty of people enjoy having their picture taken while they’re asleep . . .
Bloody weirdo.
She leaned away, likely to scroll through her trophy pictures, and I felt her shift on the mattress into a sitting position. Her long fake nails clicked against her phone’s touch screen, the sound incredibly irritating.
That was my cue to exit.
I stretched my arms, careful to avoid touching her, and made a big show of arching my back before I opened my eyes. This gave her plenty of time to hide her phone if she felt guilty about being an opportunist. When I opened my eyes, I avoided making contact with hers. I’ve found it’s best to set expectations on a proper course as early as possible in a non-relationship.
“Well, good morning handsome.” She slid into the sheets again, her claws coming to my torso.
I glanced at her hands. No sign of the phone. She must’ve hid it in her bedside table. This was a relief; the less inconspicuous of her kind often requested more pictures over breakfast. The answer was always no. I never ate meals with the help.
I hadn’t been drunk last night when I suggested we party. I’d been cold. Ireland is cold year round, even in the summer. And I am likewise cold, unless I can locate a warm body and share her bed.
The woman snuggled against me. Her skin had been soft last night, but now—bathed in daylight—it felt like sandpaper. I peeled her from me, no longer cold, and then sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed sleep from my eyes.
“What time is it?”
“Just past seven,” she purred, her nails scratching lightly down my back.
“Stop touching me. Where the feck are my pants?”
She jerked her hand away with a little gasp and was mercifully silent as I scanned the room.
Sex was usually the price I paid for a night of warmth, which made no sense because my nameless partners always faked it, even when I ate them out. They faked it loudly, and with enthusiasm, and sometimes with impressive creativity. But faked nevertheless.
Just once, I wanted to see and hear and feel a woman truly orgasm. Just. Fucking. Once. I’m beginning to doubt women are capable of climaxing. The great female-orgasm myth . . .
“No need to be such an arsehole.” She’d recovered the ability to speak. I wished she hadn’t.
I was going to be late for Sunday breakfast with the family if I didn’t get up and out. If I missed breakfast then I’d be subjected to months of passive-aggressive reminders of my tardiness for that one time, and be on the hook for a year’s worth of favors.
“I need to piss.” I stood from the bed and crossed her tiny Dublin flat to the door I assumed was her toilet, finding my pants on the way and pulling them on. I shut and locked the door—just in case she had any ideas about snapping more pictures—and did my business, rinsing off her toothbrush with Listerine before brushing my teeth with it.
I had a ritual when I cleaned up after a night of inane debauchery. Disinfecting the toothbrush, going through the medicine cabinet for aspirin, washing my face with their soap—as long as it didn’t smell of flowers or food. One-night stands were worth it just for cosmetic product discoverability.
About six months ago I shagged a woman and used her facial cleanser. Great stuff, unscented, gentle but left the skin thoroughly cleaned. I couldn’t tell you her name or what she looked like, but I could tell you she used a cleanser named Simple to wash her face. I knew this because on my way home, I’d stopped by Boots and picked it up in bulk.
“What are you doing in there?” Last night’s warm body tested the door handle.
I ignored her question and smelled her soap. It smelled like cake. I placed it back on the tray, unused. Why do women want to smell like cake?
