Monday, July 13, 2009

Breathe - A Staal Brothers Fic Chapter 1

Chapter 1 ~ Burn It To The Ground

Like the man in the song says, ‘I got a fist full of fifties, Tequila just hit me’. I’d won a little on the slots earlier when I was waiting for Miki to finish talking to her boyfriend back home and I was happy to spend it right away. What you win in Vegas stays in Vegas. I’m sure that’s the rule.

Anyway, flashing a wad of fifties and being pretty much the hottest bitches in a bar gets you VIP service. That’s a tip by the way. The bouncers had ushered us to a roped off area where there was an assortment of tall, handsome, well dressed men already well into their cups. I didn’t even mind if they’d pointed us out on the dance floor. Like I said, Miki and I were by far the hottest bitches in the place and besides, I’d been pretty much dancing with a bottle of Patron, as I hadn’t seen a single guy tall enough or what I’d consider hot enough to dance with.

You see I’m pretty picky when it comes to men and it’s not just because I think I’m hot. I mean, I know I’m hot and I’m not saying that because I’m conceited but I can’t walk past a construction site without work coming to a complete halt. I am that girl that guys whistle at from the windows of moving cars. But I’m also damn near six feet in bare feet and when you’re that girl, your dating pool gets considerably shallow.

You wouldn’t think so. I mean, they say that we, as human beings, are getting taller with each passing generation. But a lot of the guys that are tall enough to make me feel really girly, you know where you fit into that spot where a guy can put his chins on the top of your head, are younger than me, or taken, or gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

So when the bouncer ushers us in the direction of an entire group of six foot plus guys that look like they actually work out and have enough money to buy designer threads, well momma was in her element, if you get my drift.

Now I don’t say that because I’m a snob. Well made clothes are a good investment. You can buy cheap shit if you want, but if you invest in good pieces, they’ll last. It’s not always true, but often you do get what you pay for and I have an eye for these things. I haven’t been a personal shopper at Holts for most of my young life for no reason. People respect my ability to know what looks good, and most of these guys looked good, really good and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just because I’d already downed half the bottle of Patron all on my own.

There was one of them, a tall blonde one with these steely blue eyes that gave me this look that just said ‘I’m thinking about you naked right now’ that just plain did it for me. He didn’t even want to dance with me. They put that Hinder song on ‘Up All Night’, and I did that drunk girl thing where I screamed and grabbed Miki and the nearest guy and dragged them out on the floor. I didn’t even really dance with the guy either. I sort of danced around him, used him like a stripper’s pole, grinding and getting really, really low, shimmying and shaking what my momma gave me and all the time, the tall blonde one with the Steven Tyler lips and the John Travolta cleft chin just kept staring at me like he was picturing me naked.

Normally, if I was just out shopping or walking to work or something, a guy looking at me like that would make me go all ‘ooh ick’ but with half a bottle of Patron in me and in holiday mode, plus the fact that he was really wearing his jeans well and the muscles in his chest and arms were straining against the thin cotton of his long sleeved tee, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.

I’m also not the type of friend who would normally abandon her girlfriends at a club and just leave with some random guy, but again, I wasn’t exactly my usual self. So when I stumbled off of the floor, in desperate need of something cold to drink and some ice to drop down into my bra and Blondie walked up to me and said something along the lines of ‘I want to fuck your brains out’, I didn’t think about Miki or about the fact that we had to catch a plane the next morning. I just followed him out of the club.

I do that when I’m three sheets to the wind. I’ll follow people. It’s a bad and a dangerous habit. He could have been an axe murderer for all I knew. Of course he wasn’t, but I didn’t know that at the time.

What I did know was that he had really big hands, long fingers and I almost had to run to keep up with his long strides. I also knew, as soon as I heard the metallic whoosh of the elevator door closing behind us that he definitely was prepared to back up the steamy looks he’d been giving me in the club.

Now some people can get very drunk and wake up the next morning and are blessed with no memory of what they did the night before. As if the men in black walked up to them with that little memory stick eraser thing and just wiped their memory clean. I am not blessed with that gift. I can get puking my guts out, falling down, passing out drunk and still remember everything that happened the night before. You would think that would stop me from doing stupid shit, but no, it doesn’t, especially not after 151 or Tequila.

So while some of the memories of that night, like getting to the club or exactly how I got that bottle of Patron may be a little hazy, the way Blondie pulled me to him and pressed his lips over mine, leaving me weak kneed and entirely at his mercy, are etched in my brain and probably will be until the day I die.

Firstly, I’m a sucker for a guy that can actually do that, pretty much pick me up and move me. It’s part of that height thing. There just aren’t that many guys that can do it. Blondie, on the other hand, in no time at all, had me up against the wall of the elevator with his tongue down my throat and his hand in my panties without even seeming to put out any effort at all.

I was impressed, I’ll admit it. I remember thinking something along the lines of ‘damn, he’s strong’ shortly followed by ‘oh look little old lady in a leisure suit is going to have a stroke’. The old couple pulling their matching oxygen tanks didn’t seem to faze Blondie, however. He just grinned and dragged me past them, politely saying hello while I stumbled behind him down the hall.

I also remember, very clearly, that when he turned to lock the door, put the dead bolt on, I assumed to keep out his roomies that I wanted to take my boots off. Being new they were hurting my feet but I couldn’t quite figure out what to do with my bottle or how to take them off using only one hand. Mr. Take Charge; however, took the bottle out of my hand and took a long swig from it, which caused me to take a long look at his long thickly muscled neck that I decided I needed to make like a vampire and bite.

I wish I could say the rest was a blur, but it’s not. My memory of it is like the best porn film ever made and all I have to do is close my eyes and I can bring it all back. We destroyed that hotel room. He had me against the wall and I ended up kicking over one of the lamps. He had me against the TV stand and I remember hearing the door crack behind me as he shoved me against it. He even had me on that little table they put in the corner, which I assume is for eating room service, although I’d never done that in Vegas, and he was the one who kicked the chair out of the way, sending it into the wall, leaving a scuff mark and dent where it bounced off. We even ripped the sheets, which I don’t think you can say was really all our fault, considering how tightly the maids had made the hospital corners. All I know was we couldn’t really get them off and we kept sliding around on the satiny quilt cover and we go impatient. I even bit through one of the pillow covers.

They even sent security at one point, to check and see if he was an axe murderer I guess, and we both had to come to the door and say that we were both happy to be there, although there was really no second guessing how happy he was and I remember laughing and pulling the towel off of him to prove my point.

Of course that only started it all over again, which is when the phone got knocked onto the floor and the bedside table was turned into kindling. Even the wall sconces above the bed weren’t safe. I pulled one of them completely out the wall at one point and the other, well the glass part was knocked off and must have hit something because it got broken too.

By the time he cried uncle, declared me the winner and was lying fast first on the remaining pillow declaring himself dead, the room looked like it had been turned over by professional thieves. That or a hurricane had been through. That’s when he asked me my name.

I was going to lie but decided against it. I was going home in the morning and I’d decided that he must be an American and there wasn’t much point in exchanging phone numbers, no matter how earth shattering and life altering the sex had been.
So I just didn’t tell him, and held both hands over his mouth when he tried to tell me. ‘No names’ I’d said, stretching my aching limbs out beside his and closing my eyes, just for a few minutes. He’d laughed and shook his head and pulled my body into his, his knees fitting perfectly into the back of mine, his body curling around mine like it was meant for me. It felt nice. I do remember that.
I also remember all too well sneaking out of the room, leaving him with the disaster and the bill for the damage no doubt, carrying my new Prada boots and trying to ignore the appalled and dismayed looks from the early risers, again, all blue rinse biddies no doubt heading down to start tossing their pension cheques at the nickels slots early.

I’m not saying I’m proud of that night but I’m not exactly ashamed of it either. I’m not normally the kind of girl that would just hop into bed with some random guy but there was something about him, something about the way he was looking at me, mixed in with a fair amount of liquor that just did it for me that night. Plus, and this is a big plus, it was definitely, hands down, no arguments the best sex I’ve ever had in my entire life…period.

Not that I think about it all the time. I mean, yeah, I’ve woken up in a cold sweat more than once, my entire body shuddering from the force of the sense memory, but I don’t think about it all the time and the only other person, other than the guy and probably all of his friends, who knows about that night is Miki and she’s my best friend. She’d never tell anyone.

So after my walk of shame and Miki sort of rolling her eyes at me for a couple of days afterward, I put that night behind me and tried to go on with my life but it did sort of make it hard for me to date after that. Not that dating has ever been that easy for me. Like I said, I’m tall for a girl so my pool of men to draw from is a bit small, but then I had the added issue of looking for that same sort of heat in another man and I just wasn’t finding it.

Not until Miki and I had both applied for job transfers to New York. Did I mention that I love the fashion industry? Well I do but mostly because it’s helped pay my way through a crazy hard course to be a legal assistant and taken a load of shit jobs in a bunch of law firms until I found one that would get me out of this town and into the big bad world and put a few thousand miles between me and my family.
I’d been in the Big Apple for about a month, living in a tiny two bedroom apartment that was nothing like those huge places they had on Friends (as if anyone in New York could really afford apartments that big on any of their salaries!!), when one of the other assistants set me up on a blind date.

That’s when things starting turning around for me.


  1. I really love your writing style. You've got the perfect amount of sarcarsm, wit, and hilarity. Update soon please, and assuming you're the same qfd, your story Starlight as well.