Chapter 18: The Public Bicycle
The coffee machine hissed. Steam rose. Mark stirred his cup. Black. Bitter. Like the taste coating his tongue since the library incident. He kept his eyes on the organic chemistry textbook. Words blurred. Equations swam. All he saw was Amy’s thong flashing on screen. Her laugh echoing. The bills fluttering down.
A ripple of low whistles cut through the café chatter. Mark didn’t need to look up. He knew. The scent of cheap body spray preceded her – candy-sweet, cloying. Amy’s footsteps were distinct now. A deliberate, hip-swaying click-click-click of platform heels. She slid into the booth opposite him, the vinyl squeaking under her weight. Her ass cheeks, plump and round, were on full display, barely contained in a minuscule, baby pink leather skirt that rode up with every step, revealing more than it hid. The skirt was adorned with frills and lace, a sickeningly sweet contrast to the lewd way it clung to her flesh. A white, silky blouse, unbuttoned just enough to show off her lacy bra, was tied in a bow at her waist, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her long, blonde hair extensions cascaded down her back, and her fake lashes fluttered with every batting of her eyes. Her fake nails, long and painted a bright pink, tapped impatiently on her thigh, matching her orange fake tan . Her asscheeks peeked out, orange against the neon pink fabric, jiggling faintly as she settled.
"Hey, babe!" Her voice was bright, airy. Valley Girl Lite. She leaned across the small table, her low-cut tank top gaping. "Missed you this morning." She blew him a kiss. It smelled faintly of mint gum and something else Mark tried not to identify.
Mark kept stirring his cold coffee. "You were out." Flat. Lifeless.
"Just grabbing breakfast!" Amy chirped, pulling out her phone. Her nails were long, painted bubblegum pink. She tapped rapidly, a selfie smile plastered on her face. "Mmm, Chad’s frat makes the best pancakes." She giggled, a high-pitched sound that grated. "He totally hooked me up."
Mark’s knuckles whitened around his spoon. Chad. Always Chad. Even now, when Chad barely acknowledged her anymore. "Thought you hated their food."
Amy waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, puh-lease. That was ages ago. Besides," she leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, though it still carried, "he let me lick the syrup off his–" She stopped, catching Mark’s frozen expression. Her smile didn’t waver. "Kidding! Gosh, Mark, lighten up." She snapped another quick selfie, puckering her lips.
A group of guys in football jerseys shuffled past their booth. One, tall with a buzzcut, deliberately bumped Amy’s shoulder. "Hey, Amy," he drawled, eyes raking down her exposed legs. "Looking good. Real good."
Amy beamed, preening. "Thanks, Jakey!" Her voice dripped honey. She shifted, making the shorts ride even higher. "You hitting the gym later?"
"Maybe," Jake smirked. He pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket. With practiced ease, he tucked it into the thin waistband of her skirt, his fingers brushing her bare hip. "Save me a spot on the bench press?"
Amy giggled, arching her back slightly. "Only if you spot me first." She winked. Jake laughed, clapping his buddy on the back as they moved towards the counter.
Mark stared at the five-dollar bill nestled against Amy’s skin. His stomach churned. Acid burned his throat. "Amy," he whispered, his voice raw. "Why?"
She glanced down, feigning surprise. "Oh, that?" She plucked the bill out, waving it. "Jake’s just sweet. Pays for my latte sometimes." She tucked the money into her tiny purse. "It’s nothing."
"It’s not nothing!" The words burst out, louder than intended. A few heads turned. Mark flinched, shrinking back into the booth. "He… he touched you. He put money…" He couldn’t finish. The image of Jake’s fingers slipping under the denim, the casual ownership in the gesture, choked him.
Amy rolled her eyes dramatically. "God, Mark. Chillax. It’s just how guys are friendly here. It’s no biggie." She picked up his abandoned spoon, stirring his cold coffee absently. "You’re so uptight lately. It’s kinda boring."
Mark watched her. The girl who used to debate quantum physics with him over lukewarm pizza. Who wore mismatched socks and geeky t-shirts. Now, her eyes scanned the café, seeking the next approving glance, the next murmured compliment. Her body was a commodity, displayed openly, traded for fleeting attention. She craved the degradation, the reduction to an object. He saw it in the way she leaned into accidental touches, the way her voice pitched higher when men looked.
Across the room, near the overflowing trash bin, Chad leaned against the wall. He wasn't looking at Amy. He was scrolling on his phone, a bored smirk playing on his lips. He’d won. Thoroughly. The thrill of the manipulation had faded. Amy was just… predictable now. Public property. He caught Mark’s eye. The smirk widened into a cold, triumphant grin. A silent reminder: I did this. She’s mine, even when she’s theirs.
Mark couldn’t look away from Chad’s smirk. That cold, satisfied gleam cut deeper than any insult ever could. It screamed victory. It confirmed the relentless erosion Mark had witnessed, day after hollow day. He gripped the edge of the sticky table, knuckles bone-white.
Amy sighed dramatically, a puff of air stirring her bleached bangs. She shifted, the vinyl protesting again as one plump, orange-tanned cheek fully escaped the pink skirt’s flimsy border, jiggling obscenely. "Like, literally starving," she whined, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. "Wanna grab sushi later?" Her gaze drifted past Mark, tracking the football players ordering at the counter.
"Still studying," Mark mumbled, shoving his textbook away. The diagrams swam into meaningless shapes. All he saw was Jake’s fingers sliding the cash under her waistband. The casual, degrading ownership of it.
"Booooring," Amy sing-songed, snapping another selfie. She puckered her lips, angling her phone low to capture her exposed backside. "Maybe I’ll see if Chad wants–"
"No." The word was low, ragged. A final, fraying thread. "Please, Amy. Just… no more Chad." He remembered her hunched over microscopes, eyes alight with genuine curiosity. Not this vacant hunger for validation.
Amy blinked, fake lashes fluttering like trapped insects. "God, Mark, possessive much?" She rolled her eyes, a practiced, dismissive gesture. "Chad’s just a friend. Like, literally." She leaned forward suddenly, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper laced with cheap perfume. "He doesn’t even touch me anymore. Not like you do." Her tongue flicked out, wetting her glossy lips suggestively. "Miss your hands, baby."
A notification pinged loudly from her phone, vibrating on the table. Mark glanced down reflexively. The screen lit up, illuminating a cascade of unread messages:
> Jake (GymBro): bench free in 10. ur mouth ready? 💪🏻🍆
> Tyler (Delta Sig): library stacks. 3rd floor. got cash. want that ass rn 👅
> Unknown: heard ur the campus cumdump. back alley in 5. bend over.
Mark froze. His breath hitched, strangling in his throat. The words burned into his retinas. Proof. Ugly, undeniable proof.
Amy snatched the phone, giggling nervously. "Oopsie! Wrong chat open." She didn’t look guilty. Just inconvenienced. Her thumb swiped dismissively. "Spam bots are, like, crazy annoying."
The sticky vinyl groaned as Amy slid closer. Her thigh pressed against his, warm through his jeans. That candy-sweet spray overwhelmed the coffee smell. "You look stressed, baby," she murmured, her breath minty against his ear. "Like, mega stressed." Her long pink nail traced a slow circle on his wrist.
Mark jerked his arm away. His throat felt raw. "Those texts... Jake... Tyler..." The names choked him. "They weren't bots, Amy." He stared at the worn Formica, avoiding her wide, artificially blue eyes.
"Puh-lease!" Amy tossed her blonde extensions. A dismissive flick. "It was totally spam. Random creeps sliding into DMs." She leaned in again, her hand landing possessively on his thigh. Her blouse gaped, revealing lace. "Why would I need them? I have you." Her voice dropped, sugary thick. "My big, strong nerd."
His eyes burned. Sandpaper on raw nerves. He remembered the library stacks reference. Third floor. Where they used to study genetics together. "I saw the words. 'Cumdump'. 'Bend over'." He forced himself to look at her. "Who sends spam like that?"
Amy sighed, long and theatrical. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh my god, Mark. Seriously? You know how trolls are! They see a cute girl online and go full psycho." She poked his chest. Gently. Mockingly. "Did you forget your anxiety meds again? You're being, like, kinda sus." Her head tilted. Innocent. Calculated.
Doubt flickered. Just a spark. Had he misread it? Was he spiraling? Her gaze held his. Steady. Unwavering. She squeezed his thigh, her thumb rubbing small circles. "I only want you, baby. Promise." Her other hand brushed his cheek. Cold, despite the café heat. "You're my Marky-Mark."
The memory of Jake tucking cash into her waistband flashed. Sharp. Vivid. "Jake... at the gym bench..." Mark stammered. "He said... your mouth..."
Amy threw her hands up. "Ugh! Gym talk! It’s gross, yeah, but guys are gross! He meant protein shakes, duh!" She leaned closer, her perfume thick. "Do you really think I’d cheat? On you?" Her lower lip trembled. Perfectly timed. "After everything? You think I'm that kind of slut?" A single, glistening tear tracked through her orange foundation. Fake? Real? Mark couldn't tell.
He flinched. The word 'slut' hung in the air. Harsh. Her using it felt like a trap. "No... I just..." His voice cracked. The evidence felt slippery now. Distorted. Had he seen it right? Maybe it was just crude jokes. Men being idiots.
"Shhhh," Amy soothed, pressing a finger to his lips. Her eyes were wide, earnest pools. "You're just overwhelmed. Sad about your grades. Stressed about Chad being mean." She pulled him into a hug, pressing her exposed cleavage against him. "I'd never hurt you, Marky. Never." She kissed his temple, lingering. "I love you. Only you." Her hand slid under his shirt, cold nails scraping lightly down his spine. "C'mere, baby. Forget the stupid texts."
Mark let himself be pulled closer. The scent of her, the warmth, the familiar shape of her body against his. It was a lifeline in the confusing storm. His resolve crumbled. Maybe... maybe he had overreacted. Misinterpreted. His anxiety was bad lately. His arms tentatively encircled her waist, fingers brushing the bare skin above her absurd skirt. She felt so small suddenly.
Amy sighed into his neck, a sound of pure contentment. Or victory. "There we go," she murmured. "My sweet boy." She held him tight for a moment longer, then pulled back just enough to beam at him. Her smile dazzling. Fake-lashes fluttering.
The fake lashes fluttered. A practiced signal of innocence. Mark felt the familiar, hollow ache in his chest ease slightly, replaced by a fragile warmth. She was here. She chose him. Her hand, cool with its sharp pink nails, rested possessively on his arm. "See?" Amy murmured, her voice syrup-thick. "Just us." She squeezed. Hard enough to leave faint crescents in his skin.
He nodded, forcing a weak smile. The accusations felt distant now, absurd even. His anxiety, twisting things. Always twisting things. He picked up his cold coffee, took a bitter sip. Textbook. Equations. Focus. "Library after this?" he asked, voice rough.
"Mmm, yeah, totes," Amy chirped, already pulling her phone out again. Her thumb danced across the screen. A notification chimed – a sharp, tinny sound. Jake’s name flashed briefly before her thumb flicked it away. "Ugh, spam," she sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly disappeared.
"Library sounds good," Mark repeated, clinging to the normalcy of it. "Need to finish that bio lab report." He remembered the quiet corner on the third floor, near the dusty geology journals. Their spot. Before Chad, before the platform heels and the orange tan.
"Perfect!" Amy beamed. "I gotta pee first though. Like, seriously." She slid out of the booth. The tiny pink skirt rode up obscenely high, revealing the full curve of her orange-tanned cheeks. She didn't adjust it. "Back in a flash, babes!" She blew him another minty kiss and click-clicked towards the café restrooms.
Mark watched her go, the sway of her hips exaggerated. He traced the rim of his coffee cup. The five-dollar bill. Jake’s fingers. He pushed the images down. Deep. Spam bots. Trolls. His anxiety. He opened the textbook again, staring blindly at diagrams of cell mitosis. Division. Splitting apart.
Amy didn’t turn towards the restrooms. At the corridor junction, she veered sharply left, pushing through the emergency exit door marked 'STAFF ONLY'. A short, dimly lit service hallway led to a rear delivery entrance. Cooler air hit her skin. She tapped her phone.
> b there in 2. stacks back entrance. bring the cash. 😈🍑
> Tyler (Delta Sig): already waiting. hurry up slut.
A predatory smile touched her lips. Not Valley Girl. Something colder. She pushed open the heavy metal door. Alley air, damp and smelling of garbage, replaced the coffee scent. She clicked quickly across the uneven pavement, towards the library's loading dock tucked behind a row of dumpsters. Tyler leaned against the graffiti-tagged wall, hands shoved in his pockets. He grinned when he saw her approach.
"Took you long enough," he said, his voice low. He pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill. Held it up.
Amy stopped before him, swaying slightly on her heels. Her eyes flicked down to the money, then back to his face. She didn’t speak. Slowly, deliberately, she turned around. Bent over at the waist, placing her hands flat against the cool, grimy brick wall. The pink skirt offered zero coverage now. Her asscheeks, orange and plump, were fully exposed to the alley, to Tyler. She pushed back slightly, presenting herself. Waiting.
Tyler whistled low. "Jesus." He stepped forward. The ten-dollar bill fluttered down, landing on the greasy pavement by her stiletto. His hands went to his belt buckle. A rasping metallic sound echoed in the confined space.
Inside the warm, buzzing café, Mark underlined a key term in his textbook. Telophase. Final stage of mitosis. Cytokinesis. He glanced towards the restroom hallway. She was taking a while. Probably reapplying that glittery lip gloss she loved. He took another sip of cold coffee. He believed her. He had to. The alternative was unthinkable. His Amy. His sweet, nerdy Amy. She’d never lie to him. Not really. He closed his book, the sound unnaturally loud in his ears. He’d just wait. Patiently. For his girl to come back.