Property of the Bad Boy

By: Vanessa Waltz

Music pounds from the floor-to-wall speakers, radiating outward. The waves shake into my leg, traveling upward to bury somewhere in my chest. The bass plays my rib cage like a drum, and I lift the cool glass to my lips—I don’t remember what the fuck I’m drinking—and I tilt my head back. A vague burning sensation fills my mouth as multicolored lights bleed into each other.

Jesus, I’m wasted.

I’m wasted a lot lately.

A hand pounds my shoulder really fucking hard, and I turn around, glass in hand. The whole world turns with me in swirls of color. I’m ready to smash the drink in his face, but it’s only François. He gives me a look that boils my blood. That upturned nose and those haughty eyes condemn me.

Go ahead and judge me, you fuck.

Like anyone in my position would be sober.

His mouth moves, and it takes a few seconds to work out what he’s saying. “Are you ready to go?”

“Am I balls deep in some chick right now?”

He rolls his eyes.

“I came here to get laid, and I’m not leaving until that happens.”

We went out tonight celebrating my last night of freedom, but so far it’s a fucking letdown. Johnny’s axe hangs over my neck, and I keep thinking about that instead of scoring easy pussy.

“Keeping the boss waiting isn’t smart, Jack.”

Fuck the boss.

François’s jovial face falls ever so slightly as heat rises to my skin. It’s almost as if I said it out loud. Maybe I would say it if I had a death wish, but I don’t want to think about that piece of shit right now. My head turns, swimming in colors and perfume and the hundreds of bodies, smashed together. Ignoring him, I slide into the thick of the dance floor. I came here for pussy. One last wild night.

Used to be that I had wild nights every fucking night. A new day, a new girl. Easy and simple is how I like it, and getting a hot piece of ass to follow me to bed was never hard. A roll of cash and a few soft words on their ears would usually do the trick, but some girls don’t go for that. Some girls want me to whisper something dirty in their ears. They want the filth. They want me to talk about making them come with my tongue. I’ll tell them how big my dick is. None of them believe me, and then it’s easy to persuade them to go somewhere so that I can show them privately. Some of them are wild for action. They want excitement in their lives. Then all I have to do is show the gun hanging at my hip and tell them that I work “in construction,” and they’re mine for the evening.

There are beautiful girls everywhere, wearing shorts with tattered strings that brush over the swell of their nicely tanned asses, just begging for a squeeze. A tall blonde pushes her hair back shyly and smiles at me, but she’s not really my type. Nice tits though. I keep squeezing my way through, but it’s impossible to be heard, and I’m not about to throw a girl over my shoulder and walk out.

This isn’t working. There are too many lights and sounds. Frankly I’m in danger of falling on my ass, and heat presses in on me from all sides. I feel like I’m in a straitjacket. By the time I make my way back to the bar, François is gone. He fucked off somewhere. Good.

The bartender looks up as I arrive, making me a drink before I can even sit down. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trying to take advantage of me. She knows who I am—the people I’m connected to. That alone keeps the drinks flowing all night.

I sit down on the small black stool and eye the poured drink ruefully. There’s no fucking way I can have another one, not when I don’t even feel like I have limbs anymore.


A timid, feminine voice filters through the bullshit blasting on the speakers, and I turn my head to the left.


It’s like a mirage. A stunning girl sits on the stool next to mine. It takes a while for me to get the details of her into focus, like the white spaghetti-strap tank top she’s wearing, and the little red flowers decorating it. Her tits are perky and I have to resist the urge to look at her cleavage. She makes my cock throb. I look down her thin waist to the jeans sticking to her ass like skin and then back to her face. Long, highlighted blonde hair brushes her slight, feminine shoulders. She has a vulnerable look about her that is completely at odds with her amazing body. Her eyes are wide and blue, and there’s a small dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks. A girl like her should be brimming with confidence, but instead she plays with her glass, her rose-painted fingernails running up the sides incessantly. It’s my job to notice people’s weaknesses. To assess and exploit. It’s my bread and butter, so to speak. This girl screams “inexperienced,” and my dick jumps at the thought of being the one to break her—to shove my cock inside her tight pussy and watch her shatter as I take her wide-eyed innocence.