Fuck everybody, every fucking one.
Obviously, our Birthday Girl Beatriz isn’t having a very happy birthday. Since the death of her childhood was brought on by the death of her mother, she lost interest in her birthday. Didn’t like celebrating or even thinking of her birthday. She lacked the enthusiasm others held for their birthday celebration, how they thrilled themselves thinking of their possible gifts. Part of her was envious, she wished, just a little bit, that she could get excited over such frivolousness.
Just sometimes.
She protested this party adamantly, annoyed by the suggestion, but Trent was so persistent. It’s hard to resist him. He’s Trent King.
He took care of everything, rented out the club, handled catering and bar, everything. Surely he didn’t have to, not at such great lengths, but he’s Trent King.
Despite his immense generosity, Beatriz hates him right now. He had started out hanging with her, dancing, introducing her to other people, but being the Social Wasp that he is, he quickly separated from her. She’s sure it’s unintentional, but left on her own, in a jaded, seething mood, she wonders.
He’s her only friend at the party, nobody else could make it.
No Magdalene, no Elliot, no Alex, no Blondie, no Eddie, no fucking fun.
Nobody approaches her independently, either they’re intimidated by her celebrity or they don’t care. She’s pretty sure it’s the latter, they just wanna dance all night, rather it’s her birthday or not.
Filthy fuckers.
Sitting in a booth, she notices Trent dancing with some girls and growls like a wounded tigress, tempted to spit in his drink he left at the table.
What is she, the ugly friend who all the pretty girls take advantage of and manipulate into being the purse-watcher and table-saver?
Fuck that, fuck you. I hope all those skank bitches give you crotch-rot. Pretty DICKLICKERS!
Anger boils down into depression, a familiar feeling that comes with all her birthdays. She brushes away tears and blinks them back. She feels like she needs to cry, it’s urgent.
She makes her way to the ladies’ room in a hurry. Someone tugs at her arm. Looky, looky, it’s Trick-Trick.
“Baby!” He seems genuinely happy to see her, seems.
She’s really in no mood to fuck with him. She’d like to tell me off, curse him good, but she knows she’s just in a bad place right now.
“I have to go to the ladies’ room.” She’s curt.
His smile diminishes slightly.
“Are you ok?” Seems genuinely concerned, seems.
“I’m peachy!” She didn’t mean to be so sarcastic, not wanting to be blatant.
She turns and quickly heads to break through the crowd, the feeling more urgent, thinking she heard her name.
Fuck you, she pushes open the door, tears brimming, go stick your scummy dick in a toaster!
The restroom was empty, thank God. She threw herself against the door and slumped, sobbing and whimpering, body shuddering.
Fuck everybody! Every fucking one! You throw me a fucking party? Why, just to alienate me, make me feel worthless? I asked you not to, you fucking stupid slut! But you don’t listen to a goddamn word I say, do you? I’m nothing but pussy, huh? FUCK YOU! I can make myself miserable, don’t need you!
She screamed in frustration and punched at the door, splitting three of her knuckles. She felt better and scalded her face to serve as some kind of punishment. She dried off on rough paper towel and took a look in the mirror, stared into her puffy, red face, dull emeralds.
I’m twenty-seven years old now.
That thought threatened tears.
Whoop-dee-goddamn-do! Nobody cares about me. If I died this goddamn second, they wouldn’t have even had known I was here.
Fuck everybody, they ain’t shit.
She rubbed her face and stiffed.
Well, that’s enough loathing for today.
She sighs, in desperate need for a cigarette.
She was in some dim, derelict lounge on the upper floor, puffing her Cicero, feeling a stitch better, idly watching those assholes dance.
Fuck you rotten twats.
Hot fear crawled up her spine as an arm wrapped around her waist, a hard body pressing into her. She froze as a finger trailed her curves; lips on her ear tickled gently, the voice quiet, familiar gravel.
“They let beautiful girls like you wander around places like this by themselves?”
Fear softened into a different kind of heat, something warm. She relaxes as his teeth nipped and nibbled the lobe, lips brushing downwards to her neck.
“Don’t they know that’s dangerous?” His lips planted a kiss, the other arm snaking around her waist. “Suppose somebody wants to take one?” He kissed her bare shoulder, a touch of heat on her cold skin. His stubbled cheek pressed against her smoothness. “Suppose he wants to take you, Pussyfoot?”
Her body is alive with tingles.
“How did you find me?” She whispered.
He held her tighter, raising his head to smell the sweetness of her hair, mouth to her ear.
“I never lost ya.” He whispered back, a smile in his voice. “Think I’d miss yer birthday, even if I wasn't invited?” He chuckled softly as he nuzzled into her hair. “Never.”
He allowed her to turn around, those cold blue eyes pierced into her glossy emeralds, his grin ever present.
Oh David.
She caressed his face, fingertips lightly touching his lips. He kissed and nibbled them. He frowned at her bruised and cut knuckles, looking at her questioningly. She shrugged slightly.
“I got a little upset.”
He chuckled lowly, and gingerly kissed the scrapes.
“Beatriz…”
She slowly roped her arms around his neck and kissed him on her tip-toes. He quickly responded, kissing hard and hungrily. They moaned into each other with pleasured relief and broke with heavy breath.
“I missed ya, Doll.”
Tears welled, he held her face.
“Bullshit.”
“Shh…” he thumbed away the streams. “Y’know I did.”
He pulled her close to him and held her, taking her cigarette and smoking it. She rested her head on his chest, feeling strangely safe and serene, and sniffed as his large hands rubbed her back.
“Ya wanna leave with me?”
She nodded against him and he offered his hand.
She took it.
