“Hell, no.” I toss her a wide smile complete with perfect teeth and dimples then flash Murph a knowing look. He’s trying to hold back a laugh, but isn’t doing a very good job. His lips make weird noises and he brings his hand up to his mouth to hide his laughter, and and out of the corner of my eye, I look to see if Blondie has caught on.
She hasn’t. She’s too busy touching my arm and staring at my tats.
Yeah…
Murph and I both know that this broad is not a chocolates and flowers type of lady.
And that in a few hours, I’m about to destroy her.
Three cheers for last hurrah’s.
Because mine is going to be fucking memorable.
Chapter Five
~Sean~
I’ve made a few investments since my fights actually started paying off. I mean I made a decent living when I was running drugs, but it’s not even remotely close to what I made at my title fight.
Most of my investments are in real estate. I’ve got a house on Lake Erie and another one in a rural subarb right outside the city, but I also keep my old condo. And the other three in the building because after my title fight I bought it.
But by far, the most important and worthwhile investment I’ve ever made is my sister Tee’s college education. I can’t wait to see her graduate. She’s only got two years left for her under grad and she just informed me last week that she wants to go for her masters.
Tee has always been smart. Not that I’m not, it’s just Tee has always had a thirst for knowledge. She aims to get to the bottom of every problem. Every equation. And she works damn hard to keep her grades up.
She’s like my Ma.
My ma was a smart woman.
I miss her every damn day.
I stare at her picture on my nightstand. Then I roll my eyes over to the bare-naked ass of the broad lying in bed next to me. If Ma were alive she'd be scowling at me right now. I assume that she's probably rolling over in her grave. The bimbo's bottled blonde hair is splayed out over my pillow and her soft breathing fills up my twelve by twelve foot bedroom.
And the sound of it is annoying the fuck out of me. Cupping my hand I slap my palm to her kneedable ass cheek and say, “Get up.”
She lifts her head and squints. Mascara and whatever other eye make-up she wore last night is smudged around her eyes in circles. The bitch looks like a fucking raccoon. “What a nice wake up call,” she groans sarcastically and rolls over, “aren't you romantic?”
“Sweetheart,” I say as I pull on my gray sweatpants, “I never promi
sed you romance. What I promised you was a decent lay and a place to crash for the night.” I walk over to my oak dresser to pull out a matching gray hoodie and slide it over my head. “Now I've got a training session and I don't let broads stay in my apartment while I'm not here.” Hell, it's a rarity that I let them share my bed. Last night was an exception. There was way too much tequila involved. I make a mental note to steer clear of Mr. Cuervo for a while. He tends to alter my perception of bangable coeds.
A lot.
The girl sits up and my eyes sweep over the back of her. She has a tight little body. Tanned skin. Round ass. She stands. I admire her legs. Hmm toned. Not an ounce of cellulite anywhere. Not that cellulite really bothers me too much. I actually prefer shapely woman. There's something sexy about curves on a broad. The ones that are too skinny, like this one, well, I always feel like I'm going to snap them in half like a twig while I'm fucking them. Mostly because I tend to get rough. Sometimes a little too rough. Where's the fun in fucking if the fucker can't slam the fuckee into a wall or two?
Once a girl asked me to make love to her. I'm pretty sure I snorted. Or cussed. Or wound up clutching my side I was laughing so hard. I don't make love. I fuck. There's a difference. Making love is for pussies. Or people who care. I'm neither one of those things.
Don't get me wrong I'm not a completely heartless dick. I just don't see the point in relationships. Or getting overly involved with members of the opposite sex. But I will say that at least I’m honest when I enter into a one night stand with a broad. I don’t make promises. I don’t lead them on or let them believe that the one night of fun we shared was something more than it was.
Most of the females I pick up, I fuck a few times. Maybe five at the most. Then I send them packing. It's not that I want to be a douche bag. It's that I have to be. Attachments are dangerous for someone like me. Especially with what I'm involved in. Meaning the Braithreachas. Too many people die only a daily basis because of some of the shit we're mixed up in, and I'm not interested in getting anyone else hurt. And on top of that, I’ve never really been with a broad who I’ve had a connection with.
“Ugh,” the girl winces and presses her fingers into her temples. “How are you not hung over right now?”
“I'm Irish,” I tell her. “Drinking is in my blood.” I also think that I drink so much that I've become immune to booze. Plus I've developed a cure for hang-overs. I'm serious. Two aspirin, followed by a glass of water mixed with an alka seltzer, and add a tablespoon of Tabasco sauce, and you've got the best fucking hangover cure ever. If I could ever think of a way to bottle it up, I'd sell that shit.
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
Less than a second later, her eyes go wide, she throws a hand over her mouth, and bolts from my bedroom. Her dry heaves trail down the hall mixed in with the sound of her chucks of whatever she ate last night plunking into the toilet water. Some dudes would be grossed out by this, but not me. When you've seen someone shot in the head and hunks of their brain matter splashed all over the white wall behind them, vomiting and shit like that doesn't phase you.