CHAPTER TWO
Fringe
I wake, my head pounding and ready to explode. No morning wood to speak of.
How the fuck much did I drink last night?
I gave myself the nickname Fringe years ago when I realized that’s where I was in life: on the fringe. I can never seem to move past that to where I want to be. I have aspirations, dreams, things I want to accomplish, but it’s like I fell in a hole and can’t climb out no matter how hard I try.
At least I’m still trying.
Do I get any points for that?
I’m almost afraid to open my eyes. I groan as my cell phone blares to life, pounding out a rhythm that forces my eyes open just to find the damn thing and make the noise stop.
I look around in relief. I'm home, dump that it is, in my own bed. Frantically searching for my cell, I reach down to grab the jeans I was wearing last night, wrestle the phone from a back pocket, and press the button that brings silence to the room.
Not caring who was calling, I drop the phone onto my pile of clothes and start to settle back but find to my surprise that I’m not alone.
I try to remember what the fuck I did last night but the effort only serves to increase my headache.
Blackout drunk. Fucking wonderful.
I look at the sleeping form next to me and slowly peel back the blanket. I’m about ready-to-puke hungover but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious about who this is. What I see when the blanket is down to waist level is attractive but doesn’t help. Pushing back long dark hair from her face, I don’t recognize her. Average face, nice tits, but still a stranger.
Shrugging in annoyance, I take a peek farther down and what I suspect is true. She’s completely naked.
I look down at myself. So am I. Fuck, hope I used a condom.
My phone buzzes as I absently scratch my balls. A text coming in, probably from whoever just tried to call. It can wait.
I give my balls a final scratch. And feel something that doesn’t belong there. I look down and in the dim light coming from behind closed curtains, I see a used condom half hanging from me.
Fuck, am I a piece of work or what?
Pulling it off, I get up to use the john without turning on any lights. I don’t want to see what condition the bathroom is in nor do I want an eyeful of the mess I’m guessing I look like. Running a hand through my tangled, shaggy dark hair, I piss like a racehorse and secretly hope the girl will be gone by the time I finish.
I’m tired of this.
Yeah, I’m only twenty-four but already I’m finding that I want something more from life besides meaningless one-night stands. For once, it would be nice to wake up and know the name of the girl sleeping next to me.
Fuck, who am I kidding? No woman wants something serious with the likes of me—flat broke drifter type with no future to speak of. They love me for my pretty face and big-ass cock and they’re glad when I send them packing.
She’s still in my bed when I shuffle back into the room. Rolling over to face me, she stretches and smiles.
Damn nice body, I think, and my cock twitches, half comes to life. Fucking thing has a mind of its own. All I really want to do is go back to sleep but now I’m hungover and horny. Great.
“’Morning, Fringe.” She stretches languidly again and my cock seems to find that exceedingly erotic. It twitches again, growing a little harder. She notices and her eyes light up. “Last night was fun.”
I just shrug because I really don’t know what we did last night, and it’s easier on my aching head to not say anything.
She’s not deterred. “So, what is your real name, Fringe? You said you’d tell me in the morning.” She smiles again but I’m forcing myself not to wince as I draw closer to the foot of the bed. Her breath stinks. I can smell it from where I’m standing. Please don’t let there be vomit in my bed. My cock must be watching her tits because it’s almost fully erect now. “You wanna play a little more first, I see.”
She jumps out of bed and gets down on her knees in front of me, taking my length into her mouth almost before I know what’s happening. It feels good and I don’t push her away. Yeah, I’m going to Hell. Instead of stopping her, I shut my eyes and bury my fingers in her long, silken hair, showing her what pace I want her to take.
Hard and fast. Just get me the fuck off. Swallow for me, baby, then maybe you’ll leave and I can go back to sleep.
And forget everything I’m trying to remember.
My breath hitches as she works my cock and a light sheen of sweat beads on my forehead. My sweat stinks like alcohol. Nice, real fucking nice. I need a shower. No, what I really need is a do-over. And not just for this day. For my entire loser life.
Despite these depressing thoughts, the girl is doing a good enough job that I’m near to coming. I’m impressed and give her some words of encouragement.
“That’s it, baby, just like that. Fuck yeah.”
In response, she squeezes my balls and my body tenses, my impending release vying for dominance with a killer headache.
“Ah, fuck, baby, I’m gonna come.”
She doesn’t back off and I shoot my load down her throat. I can feel it working against my cock as she swallows it all down. She keeps sucking, draining my erection of every last drop and I growl, wanting to throw her down and bury it deep inside her.
I fight the desire and she finally lets go, sitting back on her heels and looking up like a puppy wanting to be praised. I resist the urge to pat her on the head. That would send me to Hell for sure.
“Thanks, babe, that was nice,” I mutter and head back to my bed. My cell phone buzzes again and I pick it up to read the texts waiting. “Fuck! It’s a workday. I’m fucking late. Babe, you gotta go.” I text my boss back that I’ll be there soon. “I gotta get to work or I’ll lose my job.”
She pouts and holds her tits together to entice me to stay but I’m already on my way to the bathroom to shower. I can’t subject anyone to my stench no matter how late I am. When I come back to the bedroom, she’s gone and I’m grateful that she didn’t make a scene. I look around. And, she didn’t rip me off—not that there’s much to take.
My gaze lands on my beat-up old Lori guitar. It would have hurt if she’d taken that. Hurt a lot. I’ve had it since I was a kid, and all of my hopes and dreams are tied up in it. I fancy myself a bit of a musician and I’ve even scrawled out a few lyrics that aren’t half bad.
Who am I kidding, though? I’m a nobody and luck doesn’t run in my veins. I don’t have much of a shot. Fuck, less than a shot. No shot at all.
I often think it’s much easier to get by when you don’t have any dreams.
Quickly throwing on the least objectionable pair of jeans and t-shirt—I’m in serious need of doing laundry—I race out the door and to work.