Nocturnes by Kendall Grey

her plump lips gets my dick—along with my hair-trigger temper—pumped even more.
    “Yeah, and you’re a professional cocktease.” Shut up, Rax. Just shut the fuck up . “So how much do you charge for sex? One night. No holes barred.” The Drunken Dick part of me laughs at my stupid joke. The Serious Sam in me has a butt-puckering moment of clarity. You just fucked up royally, buddy.
    I expect her to get up, slap my face, and walk out of my life for good.
    She stares me down like a pissed-off mama bear.
    My nuts lose some of their swell and begin a hasty retreat into my gut. Yet, I’m not smart enough to take back what I said. Go fuckin’ figure.
    “What’s your damage?” Her eye-daggers scrape a long, deep cut from my face down to my waist like a diamond drill carving out a trench. She injects that look with a lethal infusion of disgust and pity. I can’t stand that shit, so I give her what she wants just to make it stop.
    “I get that question a lot. ‘Why are you such an asshole, Rax? Why do you whore your way through groupies like a stoner tears through a bag of Cheetos? Why do you treat people like shit?’
    “Everyone assumes I got a traumatic past or some fucked-up skeletons hiding in my closet. They think my parents abused me. ‘There’s gotta be a reason you’re a cunt,’ they say.” I shake my head.
    “The truth is, I’m just a self-absorbed hedonist. Nobody made me like this. No terrible tragedy pushed me off the bridge into the deep end of assholery. My parents never treated me bad. It’s just who I am. A straight-up, 100 percent pure, grade A dick . It’s the only person I know how to be.” I shrug.
    “To the world, I’m a god. An idol worshipped by thousands. People see the thin layer of gold leaf at the surface and assume I’m a solid twenty-four carats through and through. If they knew the real person under the glam, they’d be sorry they wasted their money.” I lean forward, splashing a proud grin across my features. “I trick them into believing what they see, knowing what’s underneath ain’t nothin’ but cheap plastic. Gilded fucking junk. The illusion is everything, especially when it’s founded on nothing.”
    Her lips part, and recognition dawns over her face. She quickly covers what must be an unintentional confession of understanding. “I was more wondering why you’re an alcoholic.”
    The words sting worse than a slap in the face with a big, stinky tuna tail. She doesn’t know shit about me. Now I’m considering getting up and walking out of her life for good. I fold my arms over my chest and lean back, lifting up the front two legs of my chair. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
    “First step is admitting it.”
    The arrival of coffee and beignets briefly interrupts our dialogue.
    “Maybe your first step is admitting you’re a sex addict.” God, the lame defensiveness just oozes out of me. And again, my lack of filter makes for lively conversation.
    She smirks. “Hardly.”
    My chair legs slam into the concrete. “You have sex for money.”
    “Right. Which means I’m a whore, not a sex addict. Big difference.” Her eyes glitter like gems.
    And my desire for a taste of that spark reignites. “I’ll pay cash. Give me one night, Lola.”
    “If you like me so much, why do you want to cheapen me?” A hint of vulnerability sneaks behind her eyes, but a blink banishes it.
    I purse my lips for a long moment. “I guess because you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. And I have no morals. Look, I’m not interested in a date,” I lie. “I wanna fuck you. If you’re not into casual sex, I’m willing to pay for it.”
    “So, you’re just like everyone else. Joe Six-pack with an itch you can’t scratch. Money fixes everything.”
    “I blame my predilections on this disposable, iGeneration society we live in. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet up in here. The world offers me everything I could ever want on a silver platter. Why condemn me for taking it