Sex And Writing|| 18+ [{Completed}]

10

"You're not the only one who is broken and fucked," C.J. said in a low voice, immediately drowning his words in the whiskey he had been holding.

"I know everyone has their own demons," I said confidently, feeling the truth in my words. Everyone had a past, their own vices to handle and demons to chase down and kill. "I seem to be drowning in mine," I muttered the last part to myself.

"You're not the only one," he urged again, connecting our gazes. "And what you said earlier," he hesitated an odd look coming over his face. "I'm ok with it too. Whatever we have going on." He said shrugging his shoulders, peering over at me. A smile swept across my lips, the hours of embarrassment lifting off my heavy shoulders.

"Well then--" I raised my tall glass into the air, "here's to being broken and fucked.......together." I cheered softly, as he clicked his glass against mine.

An hour or so had passed. Our conversation had died, overtaken by the slurring voices around us. Questions about his past swirled in my brain. I barely knew him, I thought. And yet here I was, loyally looking after him and drowning our demons together. Hell--essentially living together, screwing each other senseless. And I barely knew the guy. What made C J. tick like a clock? Going through the same routine day in and day out, drowning in his sorrows. What made him sprint to the bar?

I took a drink of my third jack and coke, feeling liquid courage coarse through my veins. I wanted--no needed to ask him.

"Can I ask you something?" I turned in my barstool, awkwardly staring at him. His body had begun to slouch and weave in his seat, his multiple glasses of whiskey taking control.

"Ok?" He questioned in a low voice, looking at me.

"Why here? Why this....bar? Every night?" I wanted to get specific, like why 10 pm? What was so significant about it? But knowing C.J. so far--I didn't think I'd get answers.

Always worth a try though. The worst he could say was no, right? Right!

He shrugged his shoulders and polished his drink off. "Demons," he said simply.

Of course. What else would drive a man to come to the same bar night after night at the same exact time? His demons were driving him here, but what exactly were they.

"Is that what caused your writer's block too?" I boldly pressed further, squaring my shoulders.

"No," Was all he said before getting another glass of whiskey delivered to him.

His face fell an inch at my question, telling me everything I needed to know. He wasn't going to spill his guts to me like we were at a sleepover or 13-year-old girls gossiping. Maybe I'd never find out, but in the process, I didn't want to hurt him further. I wanted to pile my words back onto my tongue and swallow them whole. Stupid word vomit.

His shoulders slumped forward similar to the first time I had seen him here and he seemed to get lost in his never-ending thoughts. What goes on inside that brain of his?

We sat there together again for another hour or so. Words barely spoken between us and finally, I felt his hand on my thigh, breaking me from drunken thoughts of how stupid I had been to ask him. Just sex and work, Mercy. That's all it is. Leave him be. My conscious chided at me. The other side of my brain nagging me; craving a more intimate knowledge of his past.

Fuck off, you undecided asshole brain.

He gestured toward the front door, grabbed my hand, and led me outside. The cool night air hit my skin with relief, thankful the summer's humidity had drifted away for a short while. The night sky swallowed us whole, encasing our bodies in the darkness of the parking lot. As we walked hand in hand, a sense of security blanketed me as our hands were bound together.