Page 32 of Sweeper
And I miss my mom. She’s not the same person she was when he was alive, and while I know she’s doing the best she can, I still can’t help but think that if things were normal between us, I would have given her a video tour of my apartment by now and she would have ordered me all sorts of random shit I would never have known I’d needed. And I would have had a damn freezer full of oatmeal raisin cookies. My apartment is currently sans cookies, so I know things between us aren’t right. And I’m not sure when that will change.
I close my phone and roll to my side to quiet my mind for some much-needed sleep. Hopefully, once I get these DNA tests back, I can get my life back on track, no matter what the results are.
Just as I begin drifting off, I hear a door slam loudly down the hall followed by some commotion. I sit up, my body on red alert because it’s rare I hear anything but music come from Daphney’s apartment. I wonder if maybe she needs help carrying something when I’m silenced by the sound of feminine giggles. The giggles are shushed by a male companion and then…silence.
I swallow the knot in my throat. Does Daphney have a guy over there? My hands fist around my duvet at that strange thought because I haven’t seen any signs of a social life from Daphney since I arrived two weeks ago. Then again, I’m gone on the weekends, so who knows what she gets up to then.
A long female moan fills my apartment, causing my stomach to lurch. Jesus Christ, no wonder Daphney hates my alarm clock and television so much. It’s like I’m in the room with them. The dude makes a grunting sound, and I cringe when I hear him say, “No fucking knickers, you naughty girl.”
Then there’s some gasping and more giggling that I don’t fucking like. Not one bit. Daphney doesn’t giggle like that. I should know, I’ve made her giggle. Whatever laughing she’s doing with him is clearly fake and forced. It doesn’t even sound like her, honestly. Then again, I probably don’t sound like me when I’m having sex either. Sex voices just hit different.
Seconds later, I hear the creak of a bed and then a rhythmic rocking sound. Oh, fucking hell, are you kidding me?
“Oh God,” Daphney utters, and I hate that my dick twitches in my sweats. Another guy is railing her over there, and I’m sitting here getting turned on? Jesus fuck, I need to get laid.
“Deeper,” she cries loudly.
Deeper? If a girl has to tell you to go deeper, then this guy is clearly not equipped. I can tell you with absolute certainty no girl has ever told me to go deeper.
“Yes!” she cheers, and I cringe because I’m annoyed whatever he did worked, and he’s getting praised for it.
Jealousy niggles in my belly, so I hop out of my bed and stomp into my bathroom to try to get away from the noises. Now the dude is moaning and groaning, and it’s not as enjoyable to hear as Daphney.
Who is this fucking guy anyway? As much as I’ve flirted with Daphney, she would have mentioned having a boyfriend, right? Especially after last night. I’m not crazy. She was checking me out. Surely, she wouldn’t be checking me out and flirting with me if she had a boyfriend.
Maybe it’s just a random dude she brought home from the pub? Maybe she does that a lot, and I’m going to have to get used to the idea of listening to her banging dudes next door.
Fucking hell, this is messed up. I’m the professional athlete here. Aren’t I supposed to be the one getting laid on the regular? This is some bullshit.
To be fair, I haven’t exactly gone out looking for girls. Link and Knight have hit the clubs in West London a couple of times, but I always pass. I was playing too shitty to push myself like that. Plus, I wasn’t in the mood for random hookups. I just wanted to get my shit together and not get kicked off this fucking team.
Daphney and this guy don’t seem to be slowing down any, and the more I stand in front of my bathroom sink and listen to them, the more on edge I feel. My palms are sweaty as I grip the porcelain sink. Sex used to help my soccer game. I sought it out after every match like a fucking oatmeal raisin cookie. My little treat for a big victory. Maybe not going out with Knight and Link was a bad idea.
“Fuck it,” I growl. Slipping my hand into my lounge pants, I fist my rock-hard dick. “Jesus,” I utter because I haven’t been this hard in months. It’s nearly painful to stroke it’s so goddamn hard. But the pain of it feels good, too. Rewarding in some sick way.
I pump my cock and picture myself in there with Daphney, bending her over that tiny sofa, pressing her up against that sound booth of hers, clanking notes on her keyboard as I fuck her brains out and hear her call out my name…not whoever that asshole is in there with her.
Daphney barely tolerates me, so jerking off to her fucking some guy next door makes me a low-key perv, but I deserve this for all the nasty looks she cuts me every time she sees me. For all the times she yells at me about my alarm or has texted me a reminder to take my trash to the dumpster and not leave it in the hallway to rot. She’s been nothing but a nag since the moment I stepped foot in Old George while I’ve been nothing but friendly.
“Fuck!” I exclaim as my climax catches me off guard, and I splatter my release all over my bathroom sink. I exhale heavily, my stomach tensing with each frenzied breath.
I pause to listen and realize there’s no more noise coming from next door. They must have finished before me. Fucking amateur.
I clean up and slip back into bed, and it’s the thought that I could please Daphney ten times better than that cum stain next door that sends me into a deep, restful slumber.
Daphney
Phoebe: So, did the music flow like the beautiful country hills of Essex?
Me: Not the way I’d hoped. I wrote lyrics for an entirely different song, not the jingle that I stand to make some decent money on.
Phoebe: Well, you’re writing again! That’s something to celebrate.
Me: I suppose. I’m just frustrated. This isn’t rocket science. It’s Tire Depot. I need to turn in the lyrics in three days, or I’m going to miss out.
Phoebe: Just relax. You’ll figure it out. You always do.
Me: Not always.
