Chapter 4: The Morning After The Night Before

Chapter 4: The Morning After The Night Before

The first light of dawn was a merciless intruder. It sliced through a gap in the heavy blackout curtains, painting a stark, grey line across the battlefield of the bed. The surreal, dreamlike bubble of the night had popped, leaving behind the sticky, incriminating reality of the morning. The air, once thick with lust, now just smelled stale—a mix of sweat, old champagne, and the ghost of Madison’s expensive perfume.

I was tangled between them. One of my tattooed arms was draped over Melissa’s sleeping form, her soft blonde hair tickling my chin. Madison was pressed against my back, her breathing a slow, even rhythm against my shoulder blades. For a surreal moment, it felt almost domestic, a peaceful tableau that was a horrifying lie. Melissa's whispered words echoed in the quiet of my mind, a phantom touch against my ear: When I'm married… I want you there. With us.

My desire, my only goal, was escape. I needed to extract myself from this silken trap, get my money, and ride until the memory of their skin and their sounds was scoured away by wind and gasoline fumes.

Moving with the stealth of a cat burglar, I began the painstaking process of untangling myself. Every tiny shift felt monumental, a potential earthquake that could wake them. I slid my arm from under Melissa’s head, my muscles protesting. She stirred, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep, and rolled away from me, curling into a fetal position. In the grey light, she looked achingly vulnerable, the fierce hunger of the night before hidden once again beneath a fragile exterior. Was she pretending? I couldn't tell.

I managed to slip out of the bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The cold air hit my skin, raising goosebumps. My clothes were a crumpled heap on an armchair in the corner. As I pulled on my slacks and buttoned my shirt, the uniform felt alien. It was the armor of a person who no longer existed, a professional bartender with hard lines and clear rules. That person had died in this room last night.

"Running away so soon?"

Madison’s voice, a low and husky purr, cut through the silence. I turned. She was sitting up in bed, the white duvet pooled around her waist, her perfect black bob artfully tousled. She looked completely unfazed, a queen surveying her conquered territory. There was no shame in her eyes, no morning-after regret. Only a deep, smug satisfaction.

"My shift is over," I said, my voice flat. I focused on fastening the cuff on my un-tattooed wrist, avoiding her gaze. My professionalism was a shield I was desperately trying to reconstruct, even though it was riddled with holes.

"I'd say you went above and beyond the call of duty," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Exceptional service deserves an exceptional tip."

She swung her legs out of bed, completely naked and utterly unselfconscious, and padded over to the dresser where her clutch lay. The sight of her body, honed and disciplined, sent an unwelcome jolt of memory through me—her hands on my hips, her weight pressing me into the mattress. I forced the image away.

She retrieved a thick envelope from the purse and held it out to me. "For your trouble."

I took it. The envelope was heavy, far too thick for a standard tip. It was the obstacle I hadn't anticipated. This wasn't a tip; it was a transaction. A payment for services rendered that went far beyond pouring gin and tonics. It made the whole thing feel simultaneously cheaper and infinitely more dangerous.

"And this," she added, pulling a sharp, black business card from a separate pocket of the clutch. It wasn't a corporate card. It just had her name, Madison Devereaux, and a phone number embossed in stark silver foil. "My personal line. In case you find yourself… bored."

I took the card, my fingers brushing against hers. Her skin was warm. Her dark eyes held mine, full of secrets and promises I wanted no part of. Or so I told myself. This was the hook, the tangible link. A way back into this chaotic, intoxicating world. My mind screamed to rip it up, to throw the money and the card in her face and walk away clean. But my hand closed around it, tucking it into my pocket alongside the envelope. The craving for financial stability warred with the primal fear she ignited in me.

I gave a curt, professional nod. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," she said, her smile widening. "We had fun. Didn't we?"

I didn't answer. I turned and walked out of the room, not looking back at the sleeping form of the bride-to-be or the triumphant gaze of her puppet master. I made my way through the silent, opulent mansion, a ghost slipping through the wreckage of a party. Downstairs, empty glasses and discarded party favors littered the floor. The air smelled of regret and stale cake. I let myself out the grand front door into the cool, clean morning air.

The roar of my vintage Norton Commando starting up was a defiant scream in the quiet, manicured stillness of the West Hills. I swung my leg over the seat, the worn leather familiar and comforting beneath me. This was my reality. Not plush carpets and king-sized beds, but cracked asphalt and chrome.

The ride down the winding hill was a frantic attempt at cleansing. I opened the throttle, letting the engine roar, the wind whipping at my face, tearing at my clothes, trying to physically peel the night away from my skin. I tried to outrun the memory of Melissa's shocked cry of release, the feeling of Madison's mouth on mine, the weight of that envelope against my hip. I tried to convince myself it was a one-time, insane fever dream. An aberration fueled by drugs and boredom and a stupid, reckless curiosity. It was over. I had the money. I could disappear for a month, maybe two. I could forget their names, their faces, their touch.

My apartment was a stark, welcome contrast to the mansion. A third-floor walk-up with exposed brick, meticulously organized bookshelves, and a collection of bike parts gleaming on a workbench. It was my fortress, a sanctuary of order I had built for myself. I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door, the clatter echoing in the quiet space. I tossed the envelope and the card onto the small kitchen counter. I didn't want to touch them.

I stripped off the uniform, dropping the clothes on the floor as if they were contaminated, and stepped into a scalding hot shower. I scrubbed my skin raw, trying to wash away their scent, their touch. But I couldn't wash away the feeling. The terrifying, thrilling feeling of being seen, of being wanted, of completely losing control.

When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, my fortress felt… breached. The quiet was no longer peaceful; it was heavy with the echo of last night. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes looked darker, my mouth still faintly swollen. I looked like a woman who was keeping a secret.

I walked back into the kitchen, my resolve hardening. I would take the cash, tear up the card, and this would all be a wild story I'd never tell anyone. A single, insane data point in a life I kept carefully controlled.

Just as my fingers reached for the sleek black card, my phone, lying next to it on the counter, buzzed.

A text from an unknown number. My heart gave a painful lurch.

I swiped it open, my thumb trembling slightly. The message was short, the words stark against the white screen, and they shattered my carefully constructed denial into a million pieces.

That was a fantastic party. But it was just the appetizer.

My blood ran cold. It wasn't the words themselves that hit me like a physical blow. It was the signature at the bottom. Two simple, damning letters that confirmed my worst fears and my deepest, most hidden desires.

- M&M