Yowzah Oneshot Collection (3)

28(M)

something in the air is telling me you could be my sidekick

     mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)

Brutus is a douchebag. Mels knows he’s a douchebag. But he’s a douchebag with a hot car and a filthy reputation, both of which she happens to be unable to resist. She lets him take her to some seedy pub a few miles outside of sleepy Leadworth and they while away the night drinking too much, dancing too closely, and tucked away in a dark corner, letting their hands wander beneath clothes.

She has teeth marks across her collarbone and finger-shaped bruises on her hips. There is cigarette smoke in her hair and a warm ache in her belly that only Brutus and his big hands will be able to rectify. He wraps a possessive arm around her waist as they sway drunkenly back to his car just before closing time, running out on their unpaid tab.

Mels shoves his arm away with a wink and steals his keys, hopping into the drivers side. The tires squeal as she peels out of the car park and she throws her head back with a laugh, speeding all the way home with Brutus’ clumsy hand stroking her thigh.

She parks at her place so she has the option of kicking him out in the morning – the obligatory walk of shame is a bit too undignified even for her. Together, they tumble out of the car and onto the pavement, hands gripping each other with the intention to bruise, their mouths just as violent as she pulls him into a greedy snog. Brutus kisses like she imagines he fucks – no finesse but plenty of Neanderthal enthusiasm. It’s good enough for Mels.

She hooks her fingers into the collar of his leather jacket, guiding him with stumbling steps toward her flat. They pause outside her door; Mels digging in her pocket for her key, Brutus biting and sucking his way down her throat, nudging his hips insistently against her thigh. Her fingers close around her key and the moment she pulls away to unlock the door, Brutus’ hands still on her hips, some bloke barrels down the pavement and right into them.

Brutus staggers, too drunk to find his balance, and lands hard on the pavement but the human tornado who had crashed into them keeps Mels on her feet with a gentle hand on her arm, already stuttering out an apology. “Oh no, I’m so sorry! Crikey, what a clumsy oaf I am. Are you alright?”

He’s looking at Mels, totally ignoring Brutus, who stares up at them in dazed confusion. Mels can’t blame him. It’s gone two in the morning but the man is still wearing sunglasses and she can tell by the way he fidgets that he isn’t entirely comfortable in his skinny jeans and White Stripes t-shirt. He’s tall and lanky, with hair that would be better placed on a ten year old boy.

She nods belatedly, brushing off his hand with a scowl. “Watch where you’re going, eh?”

Finally coming to his senses, Brutus lurches to his feet with a growl, taking a menacing step toward their assailment. “The fuck? You sodding arsehole -”

Christ. The overt aggression is getting a bit tiresome. Mels is starting to wonder if he’s trying to compensate for something.

“Now there’s no need for that,” White Stripes says, suddenly looking like a surly grandfather. Most people cower around Brutus – the size of his biceps alone is usually enough of a deterrent – but this hipster twat leans right into his personal space with his lips curled into a sneer. Locking eyes with Brutus, he sniffs. “Been drinking, have you? Nasty stuff. Never saw the point.” His eyes narrow and Brutus actually looks a bit wary. “Weren’t driving, were you? That would be very stupid.”