PARKER : 023
PARKER : 023
Sometime later, I hear a vibration. It occurs to me that Sam might be riding a silver bullet for seconds because I’m spent. But no, Sam’s moved beside me, maybe asleep or passed out, a stray jet of cum on her cheek.
I realize I’m not in Duncan’s apartment. We’re in mine, and Duncan isn’t here. Nor is anyone else. At some point, I must’ve come home. I probably didn’t drive myself; Duncan has keepers that stop us from hurting ourselves or embarrassing WinFinity too severely, and they’d have herded me into a car.
That explains the suit. It’s one Sam likes. Maybe she made me get dressed for her. She gets off on me being powerful. There’s this thing we do where I sit in a leather arm chair with a glass of scotch, all gussied up in one of my fanciest suits, sipping my liquor while acting like a big shot who’s too fucking good for her. Samantha then debases herself in several ways and ends up either sucking me off or backing onto my fuckstick while I — you guessed it — continue to act like I’m above it all. Maybe that’s what happened, and this morning’s an encore.
The buzzing goes on for another few seconds, stirring Samantha. She’s still wearing my cum on her cheek and I consider telling her to wipe it off, but it’s funnier to see her stumble around with it on.
“That’s yours,” Samantha says.
I reach for my phone. It’s Angela. It takes me a while to remember Angela Who? then to remember why that particular Angela would be calling.
The haze clears, and I remember last night’s events. It feels like a lifetime ago. What I’m doing now, that’s normal. What I did yesterday, that was the mistake. I live large. I don’t bottom-feed. I don’t like the lack of power I feel while down in the muck.
“Who is it?” Sam asks.
“Nobody.”
Since I’ve got the thing in my hand and my biological needs are handled for now, I decide to check my email. I see that Angela’s sent me an email, too. It starts with a line saying she has some stuff she needs to say. That’s why she’s writing rather than calling. But then of course, she just called. It smacks of desperation.
I guess I dodged a bullet. Angela’s hot and we had that thing back in the day, but she’s clearly needy. I’m not that guy anymore. None of that old stuff was good: the home, the father, the stepmother, the emotionally messed-up and apparently needy stepsister. I had a moment of weakness. I’m over it now.
I read the email anyway.
Maybe I was wrong, Angela writes.
Maybe I reacted without giving you a chance to explain.
Maybe, like you once told me, I’m just letting Mom and Bill pile their crap on top of me.
I hated you for too long, Parker, and I think I wanted to believe what Samantha said without giving you a chance, maybe to protect myself and what I felt. About myself, about you, and about the fact that I knew at some point, I’d need to go back home.
But I guess it was all, including last night, about me more than you.
I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.
I saw last night, before Samantha got under my skin, that you’re still the man you always were.
And I’m sorry.
The buzzer rings. Stupid doorman. He should know never to let anyone out front disturb a man as rich and powerful as me before —
I look at the phone’s time.
— before 2 p.m.
“That’s the breakfast I ordered.” Samantha stands and wraps herself in my robe, still with my jizz on her cheek.
I’m sorry, Parker, Angela writes.
It was my choice to stay away from you all this time. You didn’t abandon us out of spite. You did what you had to do.
You’re still the man you always were.
And I’m sorry.
Samantha takes the call on the intercom. The delivery girl’s voice, canned and distant, sounds somehow familiar. She doesn’t even say she has food for Sam. She just says, “Thank you,” after Sam says, “Come up to the penthouse.”
I’m sorry.
I’d like to see you again, Parker.
I need to go downtown tomorrow anyway, so I’ll stop by sometime around —
My heart rate speeds up as I look around the room. Part of that is probably the Molly hangover. Part of it might be coke, if I did any. Most of it is seeing the place. Either Duncan and some of the other revelers came back here before splitting or Samantha and I went ‘round the world. She’s broken chairs before by herself, and working together, we’ve fucked the foundations off more than one bed.
— around two or three.
Samantha, wrapped in my robe, her tits practically hanging out.
The trashed penthouse.
I don’t even know how many girls I fucked to forget last night, but right now I feel like they’re all tattooed in a list on my guilty face.
There’s a knock on the door. Samantha answers with my evidence still on her cheek.