Gunnah e Shab

2. Ordinary • عام

He who delights in solitude is either a wild beast or god - Friedrich Nietzsche

Thick fingers wrapped around the rocks glass. The transparent, crystal glass filled with square ice cubes and golden, bubbling whiskey. The club, illuminated in purple neon lights. A sweaty mess of people humping each other as loud music pumped through the speakers. Taking a sip of the ice cold beverage, Azmaray made his way through the crowd. His signature Tom Ford cologne, casting a smell on the men and women in attendance. A smirk dancing on his lips as he moved up the curving staircase.

Dressed in black cotton silk pants and a silk floral shirt, fitting his torso and arms, precisely. His hair a floppy mess thanks to the uncountable number of times he had ran his hand through them. His dark beard trimmed to perfection and the rolled up sleeves gave a peak of the muscles underneath. Swaying to the rhythm of the pop music Azmaray grinned at his company. Taking a seat on one of the tables surrounded by friends.

"Well, well, well! If it isn't the nawab. Did your girlfriend finally let you go?" Greg, his closest friend, teased.

Azmaray let out a gruff chuckle. Taking a small sip of the bitter drink in his hand as he shook his head. The 'girlfriend' in question was his best friend, Alamgeer. He did not like the company of Greg or Greg's friends and tried to keep Azmaray from them aswell.

"He's back in Lahore now. Getting married," he leaned back into the seat.

The maroon velvet went well with the contrasting black walls. A server dressed in a corset and mini skirt walked over to them. Her movements sensual as she flirted with the men. Her hands resting a bit too long on their biceps.

"And what can I get for you handsome?" She whispered into Azmaray's ear.

"Nothing," he signaled to his still seventy five percent full glass.

"Maybe my number?" Her ocean blue eyes stared into Azmaray's brown ones.

"He's got a fiancé at home. Better luck next time," Greg answered for him.

Rolling her eyes, the woman walked away. The group bursting out into laughter, passing hi-fives to each other.

"So when do you go back?" Arnold, another one of their acquaintances questioned.

Azmaray was the next ruler of an area near Swat. He was the 'nawab', for the time being his grandfather held the position. He had come to England after the death of his father five years ago. It was an attempt on his mother's part to help him in forgetting the loss. She also hoped it would keep him away from the wrong crowds, the likes of which he had begun hanging out with in Lahore.

"Not anytime soon!" Azmaray downed the rest of the whiskey.

He was a sight for sore eyes and Azmaray knew that well. With tanned skin and hair as dark as a crow. The perfectly aligned set of teeth and the deep baritone voice put him in the spotlight. His eyes roamed around the people inside the club, a fire inside their eyes.

Coming to England had opened a new world to him. While he had let go off his drug addiction after a long time at the rehab, he still drank occasionally. It was the weekend and a celebration of the end of their masters programme. It called for a drink.

Walking away from his friends he stepped into the large throng of people covering the dance floor. He felt the upbeat music touch his heart. It's rhythm had his blood coursing. His eyes closed as he let himself loose. All titles and connections falling as he enjoyed the feel of sweaty, feminine bodies around himself.