Brett

Whose birthday was it again?

You can’t seem to remember.

House-shaking bass and rumbling chatter having made your mind swirl hours ago. Limbs following as they seemed to go heavy, done with dancing, done with pushing through bodies, needed rest after the tiring search for your boyfriend. Any calls of his name drowned out. Asks around getting answered with a shake or a confused “huh?”

He left you after the birthday cake was cut. Went with a mutter of being right back and a kiss to your cheek.

Perhaps he went outside. Maybe grabbed another case of beer to bring back.

You’d think it over in the sick, yellow light of the kitchen. Back to the corner of a bottle -cluttered counter. Mind having ran through who to ask next. Where he could’ve gone. Left another text made with rushed thumbs.

Had you not waited on a never ending ‘unread’, you would’ve left.

Would’ve moved out the kitchen. Slithered out from the few scattered bodies. Go outside for some air.

Instead, you got trapped.

“Can’t hear ya, love. Musics too loud.”

Brett.

The one who got your boyfriend hooked on coke and never failed to give you his compliments.

Always said you looked like “a proper fuckin’ knockout.”

Eyes lingering on your tits when you passed.

Copped a feel whenever he had the chance. Never played it as a mistake.

And, just like now, he doesn’t take “no” for an answer.

Deflected it like some playful joke. Pretends not to hear even when his face is an inch off yours, pinning you to the corner. Jovial in the act. Smiling that jackal smile. Bright eyed with a high having his blood hot. Tried to charm, to look bright despite the rotten purple at the side of his head —the mark of his father’s knuckles.

You ask him to stop. Moved back.

Instead, he puts his hands on your hips.

“Said I can’t hear you.” He grins, moving with you as your face turns to the left. Palms going from your hips up to your waist, sliding the hem of that lovely top with it. Just enough to catch a sliver of skin.

Reeking of warm beer and smoked nicotine, he leans to your ear.

“C’mon, don’t be such a fuckin’ pussy—-“

Brett guides you right to him, a slight tug at the waist, made you brush up against him.

“Know ya want me.” Brett mutters, wanting to hear you say it. Admit to the eyes he knows you have for him.

“Saw you starin’ the moment your sweet boyfriend left. Eyes going to my trousers…”

“No need to hide it, love.” He grabs your wrist before you get the chance to push, holding on tight. Made the point clear. Tangled his roughened fingers with your clenched ones, already wondering which room to drag you to.

“Bet I have that sweet cunt of yours wet, yeah?”