Chapter 1: F&MU
The bass from downstairs was a distant throb, a ghost of the party still clinging to the apartment walls. Up here, in Reggie’s room, the only light came from a neon Michelob sign casting a hazy blue glow over the graffiti-strewn canvas on the wall. The air smelled like his cologne, like weed, like her perfume now going sour with sweat and rage.
“Don’t play stupid with me, Reg. I’m not one of your little groupies.”
Alexis stood by the bed, her arms crossed so tight her knuckles were white. Her eyes, usually so bright, were dark pools in the dim light. She’d been waiting for him for two hours.
Reggie leaned against his dresser, slowly unbuckling his watch. The casual motion was a provocation. “Told you. Mike’s car broke down. We pushed it to the shop on Western. Phone died.”
“A six-hour tow?” Her laugh was sharp, brittle. “And I suppose your phone died right before LaShawnda just happened to post a picture of you at The Spot? Where’s your jersey, Reg? ‘Cause you ain’t wearing it in her fucking picture.”
He paused. He’d forgotten about LaShawnda’s thirst-trapping Instagram stories. A slip. Not his first. He met her gaze, a slow smile spreading. “You checking up on me? You’re that pressed?”
“I’m not pressed, I’m disgusted.” She uncrossed her arms, her voice climbing, slicing through the muffled bass. “You think I’m dumb? You think I don’t hear the way they talk? You think I don’t see you smiling at every piece of ass that walks past? You’re a fucking joke, Reggie. A predictable, lying, dog-ass joke.”
The smile vanished. He pushed off the dresser, the space between them shrinking with two of his long strides. The room felt suddenly smaller, hotter. “Watch your fucking mouth, Lex.”
“Or what?” she spat, tilting her chin up. “You gonna lie to me some more? Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
He saw it then, beneath the fury—the hurt, the wet shine in her eyes she was fighting to keep from falling. It was the same look every time. It usually came before the crying, before the apologies, before the make-up sex that burned so good it made him forget why they were fighting in the first place.
This time, he didn’t wait for the tears.
His hand shot out, not to hit her, never to hit her, but to grasp the back of her neck. It was possessive, firm. She gasped, more in shock than pain. “I said,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough whisper against her lips, “watch your mouth.”
She struggled, a half-hearted push against his chest. “Get off—”
“This what you want, though, ain’t it?” he breathed, his other hand sliding down her spine, over the curve of her ass, pulling her hips into his. He was already hard. He knew she could feel it. “All this yelling. All this drama. Just your fucked-up way of asking for it.”
“You’re a bastard,” she whispered, but her breath hitched as his mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear.
“Yeah. I am.” He nipped at her skin, then soothed it with his tongue. “Your bastard. And you’re done talking now.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a conquest, his tongue forcing its way past her lips, swallowing her weak protests. She tasted like mint and the wine she’d been drinking while she waited. For a second, she stayed rigid in his arms, then a shudder went through her and she melted, her mouth opening wider, kissing him back with a desperate, angry hunger. Her hands flew up, tangling in his curls, pulling him closer.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she fell onto it. He followed her down, his weight pinning her. The fight was still in her hands, scratching at his shoulders through his shirt, but her body was arching up into his, her legs parting to cradle him between her thighs.
“You think you can just—ah!” Her words cut off as his hand slid under her shirt, up her ribcage, his thumb roughly circling her nipple through the lace of her bra.
“I can,” he grunted, pulling her shirt over her head. The bra followed, hooks popping open with a quick, practiced twist of his fingers. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, biting just enough to make her cry out. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to this body. You gave it to me.”
He stripped her jeans and panties down in one brutal yank, the denim scraping against her thighs. She was naked beneath him, breathing in ragged gulps, her skin flushed and beautiful in the blue light. He stood to tear his own clothes off, watching her watch him. Her eyes were wide, fixed on him, all the anger now fused with a raw, wanting need.
He climbed back over her, not kissing her, just looking down at her as he positioned himself. He pushed the head of his cock against her, finding her wet, hotter than he expected. He entered her in one slow, relentless push, burying himself to the hilt.
A sharp, choked sound escaped her throat. Her nails dug into his biceps.
“Tight,” he breathed, the strain evident in his voice. “Always so fucking tight for me.”
He started to move, a deep, punishing rhythm that had the bedframe slamming against the wall in time with the distant bass. Each thrust was deliberate, claiming. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper.
“You see anybody else?” he growled, his face close to hers. His sweat dripped onto her cheek.
“No—God—”
“You even think about anybody else?” He drove into her harder, faster. The sounds were obscene, wet and slapping in the dark room.
“No! Reggie, please—”
“Please what?” He hooked an arm under her knee, hiking it up by his shoulder, changing the angle. She screamed, a raw, ragged thing, as he hit a spot deep inside her that made her vision blur.
“Please… don’t stop…” she sobbed, her composure shattered, all the fire in her turned inward, burning her up. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
He fucked her like that, her leg pinned back, his body a piston driving into her soft, willing flesh. He could feel her start to tighten around him, that fluttery, frantic pulse that meant she was close. He slid a hand between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, fast circles.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his own control starting to fray. “Come on this dick. Right now, Lex. Show me.”
Her body arched off the bed, a taut bowstring of pure sensation. A broken cry ripped from her throat, half-sob, half-scream, as the orgasm tore through her. It was violent, uncontrollable, wracking her with tremors. He felt her clenching around him, a hot, rhythmic pulsing that milked his dick, and he groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder, fighting his own release.
“That’s it,” he rasped, his voice thick. “That’s my girl.”
He gave her no time to float down. As the last shudders were still coursing through her thighs, he pulled out abruptly, the sudden emptiness making her gasp. He flipped her onto her stomach with a firm hand on her hip. The move was effortless, practiced. She was pliant, boneless from her climax, her cheek pressed into his rumpled sheets.
He dragged her hips back, up onto her knees. The blue light traced the curve of her spine, the sweat-slick dip of her lower back, the full, perfect rise of her ass. He ran a hand over it, possessive, then delivered a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the room.
She jolted, a sharp inhale.
“Look at you,” he muttered, lining himself up again. He pushed the head of his cock through her soaked folds, not entering yet, just teasing. “Still mad?”
“Yes,” she whispered into the sheets, but she pushed back against him, a silent, shameless plea.
He drove into her, deeper from this angle, filling her completely. Her choked moan was muffled by the mattress. He set a brutal pace immediately, each thrust a full-body impact. His hands gripped her hips hard, fingers digging into her flesh, holding her in place as he pounded into her. The sound was raw, animalistic—skin slapping against skin, the creak of the bed, their ragged breaths.
“You gonna check my phone tomorrow?” he grunted, leaning over her, his chest against her sweaty back. His mouth was by her ear. “Gonna yell? Call me names?”
She couldn’t answer. Her world had narrowed to the sensation of him splitting her open, over and over. A second, coarser climax was building, different from the first—deeper, less sharp, more consuming.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes!” she cried out, the word torn from her.
He fucked her harder, faster. “Good. Do it. Then we can do this again.”
His control snapped. With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt and came, heat flooding into her. The force of his own release triggered hers; she clenched around him again, a silent, breathless convulsion that left her shaking.
He collapsed on top of her for a moment, his weight crushing her into the mattress, both of them slick and heaving. Then he rolled off, onto his back.
The room swam back into focus—the hum of the boombox, the distant traffic, the neon glow. The scent of sex was overwhelming, a heavy, intimate musk.
They lay there, not touching. The silence was louder than their fucking had been.
After a long minute, she shifted, pulling the sheet over herself. She stared at the graffiti on the wall, the vibrant, angry lines now blurred by her tired eyes.
“I hate you,” she said quietly. The words had no heat.
The words had no heat. They were just sounds hanging in the thick, spent air.
Reggie didn’t answer. He just reached over to the nightstand, the movement lazy and satisfied. He fumbled for his lighter and the tight, already-rolled blunt waiting there. He put it between his lips, sparked the end, and inhaled deeply. The tip glowed orange, cutting the blue gloom. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before letting it stream out in a slow, deliberate plume that curled toward the ceiling.
The sweet, skunky scent began to mix with the smell of sex and sweat.
He took another pull, then offered it to her. She didn’t move. He shrugged, kept it for himself. He stared at the neon sign, his profile all sharp angles and shallow calm.
“I know,” he said, the words muffled slightly by the blunt between his fingers. He didn’t look at her.
Alexis turned her head on the pillow. “You know what?”
“That you hate me.” He finally glanced over, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You just came harder than you ever have in your life screaming my name, and you hate me. I know.” He took another drag. “Funny, right?”
It wasn’t funny. It was the truth, and it sat between them like a third body, cold and undeniable. The fury that had brought her here, the physical proof of his infidelity on her phone, the screaming fight—it had all just been foreplay. A fucked-up, toxic ritual they both knew by heart. The anger was the only way she could touch the passion she craved from him; the cheating was the only way he could feel in control, untouchable.
She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. She felt raw, used, and utterly empty. The high of the orgasm was gone, leaving a familiar, hollow shame. She reached for the blunt. He handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers.
She inhaled, the smoke burning her throat, hoping it would blur the edges of the moment. It didn’t.
“Why do you do it?” she asked, her voice quieter now, stripped bare.
“Why do you stay?” he countered, not missing a beat.
She had no answer that didn’t sound pathetic. Because when you look at me like that, I forget my own name. Because the way you fuck me makes me feel like I’m the only one, even when I know I’m not. Because I’m addicted to the crash after the high.
She passed the blunt back. “LaShawnda’s a hoe.”
He chuckled, a low, vibration in his chest. “Yeah. She is.”
“And you’re a dog.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, agreeing easily. “I am.”
Silence again, but softer now. The war was over. The armistice was this shared high, this shared mess. He moved closer, the heat of his body radiating toward her. He didn’t try to hold her. He just lay there, on his back, one arm behind his head.
“You’re the only one who gets to call me that,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “Anyone else, I’d snap their neck.”
It was the closest thing to “I love you” he ever said. A claim of ownership. A twisted compliment. It fed the sick, hungry thing inside her that craved to be special to him, even if being special meant being the one he hurt the most.
She stubbed out the blunt in the ashtray and slid back down under the sheets, turning onto her side, her back to him. A moment later, she felt his hand on her hip, his thumb stroking the skin he’d slapped red just minutes before. The touch was almost tender.
“You staying?” he asked, his voice already thick with impending sleep.
She closed her eyes. The party downstairs was finally dying. The bass had stopped.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“Good.”
His breathing evened out quickly. She lay awake in the dark, listening to him sleep, feeling the ache between her legs—his signature. The neon light bled across the floor. She hated him. She loved him. It was the same fucking thing.
It was the same fucking thing.
The silence stretched, thin and brittle. The neon glow from the sign painted a cold stripe across Reggie’s sleeping torso, rising and falling with a rhythm that felt like a taunt. How could he just sleep? Her mind, fuzzy from the weed and the exhaustion, began to churn again, picking at the scab.
LaShawnda’s picture. His missing jersey. The vague, sugary scent she’d caught on him last week that wasn’t her perfume. It wasn’t the cheating. It was the carelessness. The utter lack of effort to even hide it well.
“Reggie.”
His breathing didn’t change.
“Reggie.” She shoved his shoulder, harder.
He grunted, swatting lazily at her hand without opening his eyes. “The fuck, Lex. Go to sleep.”
“Are you fucking them raw?”
The question fell into the dark room like a stone. It was ugly, clinical, and hung there, poisoning the air.
His eyes opened. He didn’t move his head, just shifted his gaze toward her. The sleepy haze was gone, replaced by a flat, guarded alertness. “What?”
“You heard me.” She propped herself up on an elbow, the sheet falling away. The blue light made her skin look ghostly. “These girls. LaShawnda. Whoever the fuck else. When you’re out there lying about your car breaking down. Are you barebacking them? Or you using condoms?”
He let out a short, humorless laugh and finally turned his head to look at her fully. “You’re serious right now? After all that?” He gestured vaguely at the messy bed, at their naked bodies.
“Yeah, I’m serious. You just came inside me, Reggie. So I’m asking. Is that a party trick, or am I just one of the lineup?”
He sat up slowly, the muscles in his back taut. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, taking his time. He lit one, the flare of the match illuminating the hard set of his jaw for a second. He exhaled smoke toward the Michelob sign.
“Why?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. “What’s it matter? You’re on the pill.”
The casualness of it, the sheer dismissal, was a white-hot spike through her gut. “It matters because it’s disgusting. It matters because it’s disrespectful. It matters because I don’t know where your dick has been!”
“And yet here it is,” he shot back, a cruel smile touching his lips. “Inside you whenever you want it. Seems like you don’t mind where it’s been that much.”
She swung at him then, a wild, open-handed slap. He caught her wrist an inch from his face, his grip like iron. He didn’t flinch. He just held her there, her arm trembling in the air between them.
“Answer the question,” she hissed, tears of fury springing to her eyes.
He studied her, his eyes dark pits. He took a long drag, then brought the cigarette to his lips. “Sometimes.” He said it like he was commenting on the weather. “Sometimes, yeah. If it’s what they want. If the mood is right.”
The admission was worse than she’d braced for. A cold nausea washed over her. She imagined it—him, in some other room, with some other girl, moving inside her with the same raw, intimate possession. No barrier. Just skin on skin. The same way he was with her. The special thing wasn’t special at all. It was just his default setting.
She wrenched her wrist free and scrambled off the bed, stumbling on the clothes littering the floor. She felt filthy, contaminated.
“You’re a fucking animal,” she whispered, grabbing her jeans.
“And you’re a hypocrite.” He stayed on the bed, watching her dress. “You just came twice on this ‘animal’s’ dick. You were screaming for it. You love it. So don’t act all pristine now.”
She pulled her shirt over her head, her hands shaking. She couldn’t find her other sock. She left it. “I hate you.”
“You keep saying that.” He stubbed the cigarette out, half-smoked. “But you never leave. You just come back, get mad, and spread your legs. That’s your pattern, Lex. So maybe the question ain’t about what I’m doing with them.” He stood up, naked and unselfconscious, walking toward her. He stopped close, too close. The heat and smell of him surrounded her. “Maybe the question is why you’re so obsessed with what I do with other pussy when you know this one,” he pressed a firm hand between her legs, over her jeans, “is always mine.”
She flinched, but didn’t back away. A treacherous heat sparked where his hand was. She hated herself for it.
“Fuck you.”
“You already did.” He leaned in, his mouth hovering near her ear. His voice dropped to a whisper, laced with a threat and a promise. “And you will again. ‘Cause you like it raw. You like it deep. You like knowing I don’t give a fuck. That’s what turns you on. That’s why you’re still here.”
He kissed her then, a brutal, claiming kiss that tasted like smoke and arrogance. She bit his lip, hard enough to draw the tang of blood. He just laughed against her mouth, low and dark, and kissed her harder.
Her back hit the wall beside his dresser. The fight left her in a sudden, shuddering rush, replaced by a crushing need. It was a sickness. He was right. He was always right.
He unbuttoned her jeans again, yanking them down her hips with impatient hands. He didn’t bother taking them all the way off. He just turned her around, facing the wall, pressing her cheek against the cool plaster next to his graffiti art. He kicked her legs wider with his foot.
He entered her from behind in one rough, unyielding thrust. She cried out, the sound muffled against the wall. She was still sore from before, too tight, but he didn’t slow down. He fucked her with a relentless, driving rhythm, one hand braced on the wall beside her head, the other gripping her hip so tight it would bruise.
“This what you wanted?” he growled in her ear, his breath hot. “This why you asked? To get yourself worked up? To get fucked like a whore?”
She couldn’t speak. Every thrust knocked the air from her lungs. The pleasure was pain, sharp and blinding, erasing every thought, every principle. It was just this: the slam of his body into hers, the filthy, wet sounds of it, the sheer degradation of knowing everything and still taking him like this.
“You wanna be the only one?” he panted, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Then act like it. Don’t ask questions. Just take this dick and be quiet.”
His climax hit him, a sharp, guttural groan against her neck. He pulsed inside her, his whole body locking around her. The hot rush triggered her own, a silent, shuddering release that felt less like pleasure and more like a system failure, a short circuit of pure sensation.
He stayed buried in her for a long moment, both of them slumped against the wall, breathing in ragged unison. Slowly, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a void.
She heard him step back, the soft sound of him finding his boxers. She didn’t move. She stayed facing the wall, her jeans around her thighs, staring at the vibrant, meaningless lines of spray paint until they blurred into a single, bleeding color.
“I’m going to shower,” he said, his voice already distant, normal. As if they’d just discussed the weather. “Don’t be here when I get out.”
He walked into the attached bathroom. A second later, she heard the lock click softly.
The shower started. She pushed herself off the wall, pulling her jeans up with clumsy hands. She found her purse, her keys. She didn’t look back at the room, at the bed. She just walked out, closing the door quietly behind her on the blue glow and the scent of them, a ghost already fading from her skin as she stepped into the hollow quiet of the hallway.