Jack
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”
I rubbed my eyes, staring into the dark bedroom aside from a small sliver of bright sunlight peeking from the hall. I forgot how horrible hangovers were and why I wasn't a heavy drinker. This shit can ruin a whole day.
I smacked my lips and stared at the ceiling, my eyes adjusting in the dark. I found myself staring at a water stain trying to figure out what the hell it reminded me off. A flower? An outline of a deformed cat face? The food slop from the Tavernville?
I grunted and sat up, my abs sore and tense like a motherfucker. I rubbed my eyes again this time the palms of my hands throbbed and ached, but all my attention was glued to Ahri’s clothes rack. A homemade PVC pipe clothes rack.
Crafty and clever.
All her sweaters, shirts, and skirts were colorful or patterned, and her pants were either high waisted jeans or patterned leggings. She owned nothing black, aside from a pair of black strappy heels. I moaned and readjusted my morning wood. What I wouldn’t do to see her wearing only those heels.
Standing up tall, I stretched and touched the ceiling with my sore hands. I wore only my briefs and one black sock. I inhaled deeply. The smell of booze and sex filled my lungs.
God, you need a shower.
There was nothing wrong with smelling like this since it’s been so long, but I loved being clean. I walked into Ahri’s ant-sized bathroom. A place where a man my size didn’t belong. There was a small sink, a toilet right across from it, and a tiny shower in the corner which I was going to fit in snugly.
My black pile of clothes looked like a blob of nothing against the white bathroom tiles. I moved them into the kitchen a footstep away. Jesus, this apartment was a joke. Everything was too damn small. I turned on the shower, watching the rusty water slowly turn clear. When I thought the water was clean enough to bathe in, I stepped inside and let the hot water flow down my neck.
Son of a bitch. Even prison showers were better than this shit. I grunted with frustration, squatting under the water until my black hair fell past my eyes. I cleaned my hair with Ahri’s non-brand name products. Her scent brought a smile to my face.
Leaning on the cold tiles, I let the hot water run down my stomach. What the fuck? My stomach was bruised under my scars and tattoos, my right knuckles swollen and red, and the palm of my hands scratched up with small scabs.
Oh, shit…Gomez and Ahri.
I laughed but had to stop. The pain in my stomach, violent, and the taste of blood, fresh.
Gomez was so pissed at me when I brought Ahri back with a huge hickey. He got even angrier when I flirted with her all night. And once I told him, ‘I love you’ and tried to touch his mustache. Gomez flipped shit.
After about my sixth drink, my memories were a little blurry. I could still recall most of the night. The fight, the money I’d lost, and almost getting hit by a car until Ahri yanked me to safety. I rubbed my stomach; the pain felt numb after the hot water had its way with me. The red and purple bruise was changing the original gray colors of my snake and skeleton jack in the box tattoo.
Still the best night I’d had in years. For cocky points, let’s just say I won instead of calling it a tie. I was going to have a night with Ahri, and I’m going to fuck her all night long. It would have been better if Gomez was paying us to have sex, but I could live without it.
I turned off the water, got out, and grabbed the only towel I could find. I patted down my body and furiously towel dried my naturally wavy hair I always straighten out. My face wasn’t touched—part of the rules—but I looked tired as hell even after almost ten hours of sleep.
The beauty of not worrying about anything was going to be beyond beautiful.
I raked my wet hair back, my five o’clock shadow revealing how old I am. I didn’t look my age. I could pass for mid-twenties, but when my beard grew out. I was old. I had all my silver hair peppered on my beard, and I hated it with a burning passion. Luckily, no silver hairs touched my jet-black hair. Thank the fucking Lord.
Looking like a mess, I took a mental note to buy some necessities today and get a haircut. I used Ahri’s blow dryer to get my hair straight-ish and styled it back with the only hair product I could find. A non-brand hairspray that was almost empty. I gargled some mouthwash, and I couldn’t help but clean Ahri’s bathroom. I was about to throw the towel I’d used in her hamper when I noticed the sexy little blue panties she wore last night.
Well, don’t mind if Jack does.
The panties I stole yesterday smelled like her, but these smelled like our sweet aroma mixed together. I was going to have a small collection by the time I was done with Ahri. I knew it, and don’t judge me.
Seven. Fucking. Years. Remember?
I took one step out of Ahri’s bathroom and stepped into her kitchen bare-ass naked with a pair of blue panties stuffed in my mouth.
My stomach roared at the sight of the stove. I haven’t eaten since my pit stop yesterday on my mini road trip. I scavenged through Ahri’s fridge. Depressing. Nothing but ketchup, mustard, and a half a Red Bull.
Ahri’s cabinets were mostly used as storage space. One of which was stacked with comic books. The same comic books Fidget always talked about when we were working in the kitchen and the same characters he compared me to. I wasn't really into comic books. Never had the time…until now.
Ahri didn’t even have much in the way of kitchen utensils or pans to cook with. There were only a few pieces of thrift store silverware, one bowl, and a mug. I drank some water from the tap, filling my empty stomach as I opened the last cabinet
“Hell no.” I deadpanned the bulk size box of ramen cups.
That’s not going to happen. I shook my head. Even when I was dirt poor, I wouldn't shove that wet spongy crap topped off with fake powder shit in my body. And neither was Ahri.
I threw out all the ramen cups where they belonged—the trash. I made a mental note, on top of getting bathroom supplies, to get kitchen pans, utensils, and some groceries. I wanted to cook something edible that wasn’t filled with as much sodium as the fucking ocean.
I grabbed my clothes off the kitchen floor. Put on my briefs and pants but refused to put on my shirt. I tossed it in the corner with the sex sheets from yesterday and began to look for anything wearable in Ahri’s back-to-the-past wardrobe rack. It greatly resembled what the cast of Friends would have worn. Or maybe the Saved by the Bell cast?
I found a Where’s Waldo look-a-like short sleeve shirt that was long and snug. Definitely a man’s shirt. I wonder if it’s Fidget’s or…an ex’s?
My stomach growled, jealousy. I’d never been into sharing my women. I was a selfish, possessive bastard. So, for my sanity and the other guy’s safety, I’m going to assume this was Fidget’s shirt.
I took Ahri’s panties out of my mouth and added them to the same back pocket I had stuffed the other ones in. I finished my look with my boots and leather jacket, looking as edible as ever. I still had Ahri’s phone as well as my things, including the letter. I’m sure if she saw it I would’ve been exiled from not only her apartment but her life.
Rechecking the phone, I made sure I changed everything I needed to change. The unknown caller who was the original apartment guy was deleted and blocked, and my number was inserted. I went through her other numbers, but she didn’t have that many people aside from work contacts and a girl named Felicia.
However, what caught my eye was Luke’ old cell number and the prison number. Ahri thought about calling Fidget at one point, but she chose not to. Why? I don’t know, but I was going to figure it out.
My stomach growled once more, this time begging for food. I took this as my queue to leave and put something inside of me before I turned into a raging, hungry bastard. Before I left, I made the bed, grabbed the trash, and dumped it outside. The smell of bread and pastries masked the dumpster.
Perfect. The bakery was open, and I could hit two birds with one stone.
I shuffled through the alley and went inside. The old school bell alerted everyone a new customer came in, and of course, everyone stared at me. Nothing unusual. I was an eye catch with my height, black clothes, and now my Where’s Waldo shirt.
The chocolate brown haired woman blushed immediately at my eye contact. She couldn't stop staring at me even when she spoke to the other customers in Polish. I understood everything she was saying thanks to the only foster mom I’d ever had and loved.
There were two people in front of me, and I already knew what I wanted. A Pączki. It was just a fancier way of saying a filled donut.
“Cześć, how can I help you?” her English was good, but she still had an accent.
The brunette was easy on the eyes. If I were honest she—by standards and society—was prettier than Ahri. She had a friendly smile, blue eyes, and pale porcelain skin with no scars or dark circles. She looked like she should be handled with care and slapped with a ‘Fragile’ sticker on her forehead.
Too breakable.
Too false.
Too anti-Ahri.
I liked that Ahri looked like life. More especially like the life I used to have. Endless hours and taking on every and any job I could. I rarely said no to a job unless it broke my only rule or if it made my stomach try to commit suicide. That’s when I knew to stay away from the job like it was the bubonic plague. But other than that, everything was game.
Let's face it. Humans? We’re selfish motherfuckers. Some of us will do anything to survive and get money, which means throwing morals right out the fucking window while you’re going fifty over the speed limit in the car you just hotwired and stole.
True story.
I looked at the brunette in of front me but thought of Ahri. Ahri looked like the kind of girl I would’ve stopped on the street and ask for her number before I went to prison.
“Give me the Pączki, one with strawberry filling and one with cheese,” I said, my mouth drooling and ready to flood the bakery.
The girl went under the glass but kept her eyes on me while she grabbed my pastry. She smiled and blushed some more as she took my order. I paid for my donuts while taking a bite. Oh, my God. Sooo much better than I remember. That also could’ve been because Mama Baronski always got the donuts a few days stale since they were cheaper.
“Where’s Wazowski? I need to talk to him?” I asked with a mouth full.
“Can I ask for what?” She tilted her head.
“To rent the apartment upstairs.” I finished my first donut.
Her eyes got full and bold. She was probably excited that I was going to live upstairs, but all of my curiosity and obsession was already set on a feisty girl who was going to be my sexy new roommate.
“Yeah, I can take you to him. I’m Agata,” she said.
She offered her hand, and I introduced myself before we went into the back where they prepared the bread and pastries. Agata knocked on the open door frame to an old balding man’s office.
“Tata, you have someone that wants to rent the apartment,” Agata said in Polish.
His face fell to the ground. “No,” he said, shaking his head, determined not to change his mind.
Agata tried to say something, but I stopped her. “Why don’t you let the grownups talk Agata,” I said in Polish. I winked at her, and she blushed, fleeing the scene of my soon-to-be victory.
I’ve always had a way with my tongue.