Twisted Little Thing

  Twisted

  Little

  Thing

  by Linnea May

  Content

  Twisted Little Thing

  Copyright

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Epilogue

  Also by Linnea May

  For My Master

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Also by Linnea May

  Connect with Linnea

  Copyright © 2019 by Linnea May

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

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  CHAPTER I

  Nicky

  My heart sinks as I watch my friends turn away and weave through the crowd toward the exit.

  This had to be expected, but I still feel disappointed. Yes, they gave it a chance, and yes, they had warned me that they would leave if the club turned out to be as "underground and grungy” as they suspected.

  But still.

  A not so little part of me had still hoped that they would like it after all. That they would be positively surprised once they got here, and that coming here would not just end up being for my sake – that they would end up staying and enjoying it with me.

  Instead, it only took a little more than an hour before all three of them had decided that I indeed had bad taste when it comes to music – and when it comes to picking out clubs where we can hang out on Friday nights.

  I’m disheartened, but not enough to let it spoil my evening. After all, I am having fun. I have been wanting to visit this little basement club for months.

  'A hidden gem' it was called by my equally non-conforming roommate Yuka. Too bad she had to work tonight. She would have been perfect company and much more inclined to appreciate its merits than my old college friends

  I only moved in with Yuka a few weeks ago. My last living arrangement with an unsuccessful artist who was older than me turned out to be a bit too crazy, even for my taste. It was fun for a while, and in the beginning, I enjoyed the idea of never knowing what I would come home to. Another spontaneous art exhibit, either displaying her own work or that of an artist friend of hers, or a new temporary roommate – human or animal. All along before I moved in, she had been using her apartment for all kinds of visitors and events. She had played host to a refugee family, a snake, a bunch of abandoned kittens, and someone she introduced to me as her daughter, but who then miraculously disappeared after a few days and was never heard from again.

  It never got boring, but things continued spiraling out of control, and at some point, coming home to a new kind of craziness every single day just stopped being fun.

  Especially when part of that craziness was an unannounced gangbang with a bunch of kinky guys aged over fifty who were happily frolicking on my living room couch when I came home late one Friday night. I was exhausted from a long shift at work and looking forward to a quiet and relaxing evening in front of the TV.

  So, it was time for a change. My new place provides its own kind of folly, but one that I can handle. Yuka grew up in Japan, but she couldn't wait to move across the ocean after finishing high school, even though her parents stayed behind in Tokyo. Her plan was to earn an undergraduate degree in business from an American university and then land a well-paying job.

  But similar to me, she never finished her degree and dropped out of college when she stopped seeing the point of the whole endeavor. And just like me, she has been working several part-time jobs since then, never willing to commit to a full-time position. We became fast friends considering the fact that both of us value freedom and flexibility above financial security and a more comfortable living standard. Yuka is also an artist – a musician – and though she is anything but normal, I doubt that her quirkiness will ever reach that uncomfortable level of my former roommate. Or so I hope.

  She is working at a bar tonight, one of her part-time jobs. Otherwise, she would be here with me, having fun and eye-rolling along with me at my friends’ ignorance of good music.

  How could they not see it? This place is great! Yes, it is a bit of what they call ‘underground and grungy’, but it’s nowhere near as filthy and creepy as my friends made it out to be before they left.

  It was awkward being here alone at first, but after just a few minutes, I really didn't mind. The place is full, but not overly crowded, leaving enough room for me to own the dance floor. The best thing about my friends leaving is that I don't have to hold back on my erratic dancing to be considerate not to embarrass them.

  Granted, my dancing is not what one would call pretty. I'm not cool, and I know I'm not as graceful and lovely as most girls are when they move along with the music. Apparently, I am quite ‘a spectacle’, according to my friends. And they didn't mean it as a compliment.

  As I am throwing my arms up in the air, waving and swinging uncontrollably with my eyes closed, I begin to wonder why I even bother going out with them anymore. This is so much more fun than any of the places they have picked in the past.

  It has been more than an hour since they left. I have been dancing this entire time, so I am sweating and breathing heavily when I finally decide to take a break. As I stumble over to the bar, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and hope my make-up really is as waterproof as it claims to be.

  "Beer!" I yell at the bartender, who miraculously can hear me over the loud bass of the music.

  Delicate as a flower, that's me.

  I am leaning against the counter, sipping on a cheap but wonderfully cold beer when I notice him for the first time. He is standing a few feet away from me, leaning over the counter to place a drink order.

  He is ridiculously handsome. His dark hair frames his face in a rumpled, yet kept and thoughtfully styled manner, and his three-day stubble perfectly accents his well-defined face. He is tall, a lot taller than most guys here and looks to be about my age, or maybe a bit older.

  But it is not his very appealing features that catch my eye. It's how he is dressed in a tailored button-down shirt and what appears to be suit pants. The shirt is dark-colored and rather low-key, but it still makes him stand out. He is too well-dressed for this club.

  No one else here is dressed like this. This is a place for worn-out jeans, old, crappy band-theme shirts, and even punk or goth-inspired get-ups. Handsome or not, he looks like the poster child for a business yuppie who got lost and ended up somewhere he doesn't belong.

  If anything, he looks like he literally owns the place, like he knows more about making money than choosing tonight’s playlist. Instead
of asking for a drink, he might just be checking up on how business is performing tonight. Or he really is lost and asking for directions.

  All these assumptions are cast aside when I see the bartender placing a beer in front of him. The same cheap brand that I am drinking. Our eyes meet when he grabs it and looks over in my direction. I think, for a split second, that he may even be about to raise his drink to me – but I quickly turn away before he catches me staring.

  My heart is beating inexplicably fast as I lift my own beer to my parched lips and take an unnaturally big swig from it. What the hell was that? Since when do stuck-up yuppie guys draw my attention? The only thing that could be worse was if he was actually wearing a suit coat and tie.

  I despise people like him. Corporate slaves, narrow-minded workaholics. People who have nothing else on their minds besides their career. People who follow the boring mainstream path that forces them to get up at six in the morning, dress in their corporate uniforms, spend eight to ten hours in an office with equally uninspiring people and fall sleep in front of their TVs in the evening – just to repeat the same routine the next day. Money and power are the only things that drive them. It’s disgusting.

  I will never understand why the majority of human beings still pursue this as their life’s goal. Sure, they may be able to live in nicer places than Yuka and me, eat at fancier restaurants and spend more money on clothes and accessories designed to impress and make their life shine.

  But when do they have time to think? To create? To enjoy life? There is so little room for creativity in their lives, so little room to think outside the box. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.

  And even worse, he might be the boss, the CEO – a leading figure. Not a slave himself but a slave driver.

  Then again, right now, for whatever reason, this guy is at the same club, drinking the same beer as I am.

  I feel as if he is still looking at me, but I don't dare check. Instead, I decide to distance myself from him and the bar and finish my beer somewhere else. There is a strong urge to turn around and look back at him to see whether my intuition is right, but I am able to withstand it and continue weaving my way through the crowd next to the dance floor.

  Let's see who else is here.

  I stop and lean against a weirdly located stone pillar in the middle of the room that marks the edge of the dance area. I scan my surroundings. A lot of interesting and alternative characters are shaking their limbs, more wildly than one might see at other locations, but still a lot better looking than the spectacle I turn out to be every time the music hits me.

  Lots of pretty boys, too, with wild clothes and hair, tattoos and spikes, rough facial hair, and tattered jeans. But none of them really manages to draw my interest. In an environment like this, they are the ones who fit it – and it appears that my weird brain always looks for the one who stands out from his surroundings, no matter what.

  So I catch myself looking for him. The out of place yuppie who does not adhere to the dress code expected at this particular club. But he is nowhere to be found.

  It might be for the better. With my luck, his story will be just as boring as his looks would be to me if we had met somewhere else.

  A good song comes up and I decide that my break is over. I quickly finish my beer and head back to the dance floor.

  As usual, my moves confuse and irritate the people around me, even in this crowd. But I don't care. This is how I dance, this is how I enjoy myself. I am not dancing for others, but for myself.

  My eyes are closed as I sense and move to the music in my own way, deeply immersed in my little universe. Even though I am not drunk, not even tipsy, I feel as if I am floating, all alone, dizzy with devotion. Intoxication is so overrated – who needs drugs and alcohol when you have music.

  Once again, I cannot help but lose myself in it. I spin and turn, shaking my body without regard to others – until I brutally bump into someone and almost knock them over.

  "Oh, sorry I –" I hurry to apologize, opening my eyes to see who I stumbled into.

  It's him.

  The smug yuppie from the bar is standing next to me, smiling and holding onto my arm as if he was trying to keep me from running away. I stare back at him in surprise and form the word "sorry" with my lips again before freeing myself of his grip.

  He is standing so close that I can smell him – and he smells good, too yummy.

  Damn.

  I hastily turn around and flee to another area of the dance floor.

  There is something about this guy that irritates me – or appeals to me. I don't know what it is, but it’s definitely confusing. He is so different from any of the guys I have fallen for before. Completely different. And he looks like someone I should hate. Why is he rattling me so much?

  I need some fresh air so I head for the door. The bored bouncer hardly glances at me as I squeeze through the narrow exit next to him. It is getting late, and by now more people are leaving the club then entering it. I have my mini shoulder bag with me and could go home if I wanted to. But I am not ready yet. I feel that there is at least one more song in me.

  It is still early summer and the temperatures drop during the night. But as I flee out of the club, covered in sweat and my body burning with the heat of exhaustion, the cool breeze outside feels fantastic.

  There is a bunch of other people seeking refreshment outside, gathering in little groups in front of the club's entrance, often spoiling the fresh summer air with the stench of cigarettes. I distance myself from them, but not without casting somewhat longing looks in their direction.

  I could use a smoke right now – but I left mine at home in my ongoing attempt to cut down on my unhealthy habit. I just turned twenty-five, and though I haven't been smoking for that long or even that much, I feel like I am already feeling the bad effects from it – or at least imagining that I am. That might be Yuka’s influence, though. She’s the biggest anti-smoker I know.

  I sigh and try to relax on my own, just me and the summer night’s breeze, no cigarette, no friends, no weirdly appealing yuppies.

  Except, as it turns out, I am wrong about the yuppie part.

  CHAPTER II

  Evan

  She looks just like her. The resemblance is so strong that I almost believe it is her, until the girl lifts her arms into the air and I see that she has no ink.

  When she turns around and I see her face for the first time, there is no doubt that she is someone else. Someone pretty, nonetheless.

  She’s dancing wildly, throwing her arms up in the air, her body moving like a flag waving in a heavy storm. Her eyes are closed and she’s completely lost in the song that’s playing. She has no idea that I’m watching her – and doesn’t care if anyone is.

  That’s one of the major differences between the people in here and the guests at the gathering I just fled from. Money feeds the shallow traits in most people, it seems. There was dancing, but it didn’t compare to this club. The girls were busy holding their hair in place, only moving their starved bodies in delicate motions as to not break a sweat or lose control of their gazelle-like frames. Dancing is nothing they enjoy; it’s something they do because it’s expected of them. It only serves to lure in a random guy, one who is loaded, of course, who will take their hand and drag them off to the side to treat them to an expensive drink. Champagne, preferably.

  I’ve done it. Several times. It’s beyond easy to get laid in this world, especially if you are an industry name like me. They are attracted to you like moths to a flame. The girls are pretty, there’s no doubt about that. But they are all pretty in the same way, and they lack personality to an almost painful degree.

  Besides, they couldn’t give me what I needed. There was no challenge, no joy in breaking them, because there was nothing to break. Most of them got scared and whiny when they realized what it is that I am into. Scared in a bad way, the real kind of fright. It’s the biggest turn-off imaginable.

  Sheila was different. She looked like s
he was one of them, but I knew she wasn’t. She was fierce, strong-willed, and opinionated. She was a constant challenge.

  A challenge I lost.

  The long brown curls of that eccentric girl on the dance floor keep reminding me of Sheila. I certainly have a type – and she is it.

  Streams of sweat are running down her face, and when the song is over, she finally opens her painted eyelids and absentmindedly brushes the hair that’s sticking to her face away. She’s breathing heavily, as if she just finished a workout.

  It’s so fucking sexy. I can only imagine what she would look like under my touch.

  I want to see that face drenched in sweat because of me. I want tears ruining that heavy make-up of hers. I want to hear her scream.

  My cock rises to attention. Has it really been that long?

  It has. I’ve been busy as hell, and the last fuck I had was anything but satisfactory. Like I said, getting laid is easy, but getting what I need is not.

  The girl walks away. I’m right on her heels as she staggers over to the bar. She collapses onto the counter and yells something at the bartender. He places a bottle of cheap beer in front of her and she greedily grabs it, downing half of the bottle in one gulp.

  I love everything about it.

  "Same as her," I say when the bartender turns his attention to me. He quickly glances over to her, and I can’t help but notice the short moment of wariness when he casts a look back at me.

  He might recognize me, even though I’m sure most people in this place wouldn’t. My face and name are out there more than I’m comfortable with, but I doubt that any of the folks here follow the kind of news that would reveal my identity to them.

  He might just acknowledge how inappropriate my clothing looks in these surroundings. I came here straight from that other party, the one that was thrown by one of my business partners. My get-up is more suitable for a gathering with fancy drinks around an extraordinary rooftop pool instead of this underground bar.

  I’m very aware, but I couldn’t care less.