5

The truth is they all soon drop off my radar when they realize feisty girl about town Sophie, does not put out. Ever.

I look the part, blonde and blue-eyed with a slim curvy body and a dress sense that’s sexual because I’m obsessed with clothes and shoes. I love to be both daring and bold and love to use my body to showcase the season’s sexy trends. I don’t have body issues anymore, any lack of self-esteem or confidence concerning how I look. Therapy made sure of that, the best my family could get me, and the support from my family, Emma, and Arry. No vulgar thoughts when I see how I have grown into a woman’s figure, and I can pull off the outward confidence like any girl around.

I have no problem attracting men of all sorts, but I just want one decent guy, someone like him: My Arry. Someone to take care of me and understand that sex isn’t everything between us. That without it I’m still worthwhile. Someone to see beyond the outer shell and treat me like I matter. Someone who doesn’t see a meal ticket or a quick fuck, or who isn’t abhorred by the past and all the dirty little things that asshole did to me.

I sigh heavily, head overcrowded with thoughts and feelings and I know I’m just running my mind ragged, pushing myself into anxiety, making myself depressed and more exhausted. I lean back and rest my head against the padded seat back; the thumping noise and smoky atmosphere are grating on me, even this drunk. I just want to go home, for Arrick to find me soon and take me anywhere but here.

I close my eyes to block it all out, stay sitting up so I’m less of an obvious target and start counting down the minutes till he gets here.

I am so done with this scene, this life, and it’s never ending bullshit.

All I do is party, drink, and have fun. If I can even call it that anymore! It’s been losing its sparkle for weeks. After the first burst of independence wore off; and sitting here for the millionth time alone, tear-stained, and exhausted, I wonder why I ever hungered after this at all.

Why I ever thought shallow friends and meaningless relationships were worth more than genuine love from my family. The emptiness inside of me, which pushed me down this path, is still very much there, growing wider by the month and sucking me inwards like a black hole with no way out. You can’t drink away the sense of emptiness that plagues me, God knows I have tried. There is no curing this with a wild lifestyle anymore.

I dropped out of school because I didn’t see any point in it, none of what I was learning interested me, and I sat drawing clothes, coloring in doodles of shoes in every lesson. My head on getting out and going to max my credit card on whatever hit the boutiques that week, daydreaming over the outfit I wanted to try out when I got home. Besides spending money on clothes, the only other thing which brought me joy was matching outfits for new looks, searching out shoes and accessories that made it all pop. Fashion is everything to me. I adore every aspect of it and love nothing more than customizing things with my own style, teaching myself to sew in my spare time. It’s one of the few genuine joys I seem to have.

I broached the subject of fashion school only once; my parents dismissed it as frivolous and pointless and told me that I have the brains to do so much more. As much as I love them, and I really do, it crushes me in a way that they dismiss something I have a passion for, and even though I have never sought their approval with very much of anything, it made me rip up the brochures I collected concerning fashion schools in the city. I threw them away with the trash and threw away any thoughts of doing anything about it, lashing out in my effortlessly juvenile way.

“Hey, sexy, can I keep you warm?” A slurring male tone pours over me hotly as the stench of alcohol breath runs down my cheek. Repulsion and mistrust stir within. Opening one eye, I catch an up close and personal view of a guy in his late twenties, leaning in invasively. His hand comes to rest on my naked thigh, just below my vintage styled denim skirt. My skin crawls immediately with that burn of an alien touch that is completely unwanted. I impulsively shove his fingers away, pulling my knees together as that abdomen lurching reaction hits hard and shift to the side away from him, outraged at both the fact he dares to touch me and that he might ruin my skirt with his grubby meat hands.

“No! My boyfriend is on his way to get me and he’ll be pissed if you’re annoying me.” I lie expertly; it isn’t the first time I’ve told men that Arry is my boyfriend. For the most part, it works, and when he shows up, he plays the part effortlessly, always intervening no matter what he walks into and takes me away from it all. He has that scary look of a guy who will beat you to within an inch of your life, gorgeous enough to be plausible as my lover, despite the fact I know he keeps his right hook for the training ring normally, and is a pussycat outside of it most of the time. He doesn’t ever brawl in bars or jump to violence if he can help it, he’s too controlled for that crap. Even as a professional MMA fighter.

“Who’s annoying you? I just want to keep you cozy.” He slides down next to me, pushing against my side intrusively, my body cringing, and hooks his arm around the back of the seat over my head to angle in on me. The stench of stale sweat mixed with cheap aftershave and booze hits me in the face and makes me gag.

I hold my breath and tilt my head away from him to get some space and avoid the proximity, nerves creeping up and my body rigid. Everything inside of me flashing into instant red alert mode and poised to attack should I need to do so.

He isn’t that bad looking, maybe if I’d met him on the dance floor, I’d like him, but he has the air of a pushy guy who doesn’t take no for an answer very often. That usual pit of nausea hits deep down and I cross my legs protectively. Used to sleazy men trying it on in the past couple of years, aggravated that they always seek me out, no matter how hard I try to avoid exactly this. My skin prickles uneasily and that automatic tightening up of my limbs as I move into defensive fight or flight mode.

“Go away; I’m not looking to get cozy with anyone, except him.” I lift my phone, shaking it as though to demonstrate I’ve called him, and this time keep it in my hand in case I need to smack him in the face with it. I’m sobering up fast as adrenaline speeds up my heart rate, becoming more aware because I’m completely uptight. I try to edge further away, but the booth comes to an end at a low wall beside me and means I cannot get any more distance between us. He is all but hemming me in behind the tiny circular table. My temper starts to rise with the claustrophobia, the slow build of nervous anticipation that something is going to escalate, and all my little bells start going off crazily.

“I saw you here earlier, didn’t look like you had a problem dancing up close to some guy who left with a little brunette later. Pretty sure your boyfriend would love to know about that … Or you could just open up and give me a few minutes of your time to keep quiet.” He taps my knee suggestively and indicates I open my legs with a finger gesture, sneering smugly as I turn to meet his face in utter disbelief. My heart lurches and plummets, knowing I can’t control the rage that builds inside of me rapidly, my hands growing clammy as my breath hitches. One thing I can always count on is that inner impulsive temper of mine to make a grand entrance whenever she sees fit.

“FUCK OFF! You perverted fuck. You think you can blackmail me into screwing you?” I’m on my feet in a flash, action overtaking my brain, like always with me. Banging my ass on the table in my unsteadiness but I manage to get out from behind it, so I’m stood in front of him. I know my butt is probably going to be left with a bruise, it’s throbbing from the impact, but I don’t care. Anger overtakes with a fierce heat of sheer rage and my eyes sting with unconcealed fury as I try to kill him with a death glare.

The guy slides up, towering over me with an even wider smile that makes me want to claw his eyes out, his rancid breath hitting me in the face hard and I recoil a little. I stifle my instant gag reflex. He’s got a gangly build, dark hair with darker eyes and he has the aura of slimeball oozing from every pore. His attractiveness gone now he is facing me down like I’m some dirty little tramp. Rage and fear mingle to create one confusing ball of tension that affects every part of my soul, and yet I know I won’t back down. I’m crazily stupid in this way and couldn’t back down if my life depended on it.

Even when my sperm donor beat me to a pulp for fighting back and trying to stop him, I still did it; Still stood up to the asshole.

“I won’t tell him you were kissing some other guy if you let me fuck you over that table, it’s pretty secluded back here. Hell, it’ll be our little secret.” He tries to run a grubby finger between my exposed breasts in my clingy top, sucking in his bottom lip grotesquely. Nausea rises in my throat, burning with the sudden surge of it, the urge to punch him in his. I grimace, screwing up my face in sheer repulsion, hunching my shoulders forward so my skin is inched out of the contact, and he barely grazes me. It still has the same effect of a full-on grope and makes me want to scrape my own skin off with a dull blade and burn it.

My rage and disgust tumble freely from every pore of my body, so sick to death with everything, including shit like this. That bubbling inner Sophie, that I try so hard to control, jumps out and slaps the bastard hard in the face with a stinging hit that reverberates down my own arm; my skin burns with the sheer force of the contact. The hit sends him reeling off to one side, shocked and caught off guard, but he doesn’t fall. My eyes glued to what I have just done.