The rain pelted out an angry, broken rhythm against the roof of his car. It eerily echoed through the gloomy darkness that seemed to penetrate every dirty crack of the lifeless street.
"Forte? Crescendo?" he asked himself, unable to remember which word accurately described the increase in loudness, of the eerie melody being pounded out on his car.
"Who gives a fuck," he thought as he reclined the car seat, stretched his legs and exhaled the cigarette smoke from his lungs.
He watched, unamused, as the smoke changed color, when the headlights from an approaching vehicle lit up the interior of his car.
"Make her wait a bit longer," he thought to himself.
She had been staring out her window, waiting for him to arrive, and watched as he pulled up on to her street. She gazed down at his car for a few minutes, anxiously waiting for him to get out and go to her. She pulled the curtains tight when he lit up the cigarette.
The spark and flame from her lighter lit up the window through the thin curtains of her room. He pictured her, naked, sitting crossed legged on her unmade bed, as she sucked in the small pillows of smoke, rising from the crumpled aluminum foil through a stained, glass pipe.
"This is the last time I use," she would desperately lie to him every time he visited her.
"I don't care," he always painfully lied back to her.
He took one last drag of his cigarette, flicked the butt out the window and made his way to her apartment. He pressed the familiar, well-worn button with faded numbers on it.
"1208. Her birthday," he could never stop himself from thinking that, when his finger touched the button, no matter how hard he tried to.
How fucking cruel life is.
The tinny, crackle of the buzzer was followed by the metallic click of the front doors unlocking. He rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor in silent desperation. His cock twitched at the thought of her. She was barely twenty three years old, and wasting her life away as an exotic dancer at a rundown strip joint.
****
He thought back to how out of place she looked, the first time he saw her on the stage. She was beautiful, vibrant, smart and full of life, as she danced in front of half broken strangers. He got up his nerve and asked her for a private dance. She smiled and led him by the hand to a small, dusky room at the back of the bar.
"I'm Candy. You may touch me where ever you want to, while I dance for you," she smiled as she pushed him down on the well-worn couch and straddled on to his lap.
He remained silent and lifted the laced bra over her small, perky breasts. She threw her head back and moved her hips to the music. Fittingly, she had picked, The Black Crowes, 'She Talks To Angels' for the dance.
"It's my song," she smiled, her voice soft and somber.
He was caught off guard by the sadness in her eyes. He had seen the same sadness in another girl's eyes, a life time ago. The sadness behind her smile tore open old wounds in him. She shivered when she saw how he was affected by what she had unwittingly revealed to him.
She stopped moving and stared hard in to his cold, dark eyes, and then cautiously edged her lips closer to his. Waiting and watching if he would turn away or tell her to stop. He slid one hand over her bare breast. She covered his hand with hers and squeezed it, as her lips gently brushed against his. She pressed her mouth harder against his and parted her lips.
She tasted like cherries in his mouth.
She gasped when she slid his hand in between her spread legs and rubbed it over her moist slit.
He bit her lip and softly growled, "Whore."
She shivered and nodded her head, "Make me cum, please," she desperately pleaded.
She released his hand, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He forced two fingers inside her and rubbed her clit with his thumb. She rocked her hips to the rhythm of his thumb. Her arms tightened around his neck as her body shook and a long, low moan escaped from deep inside her.
She held on tightly, long after she came and the song was over. Slowly, she released her grip and slid off his lap.
"Twenty dollars," she coldly informed him as she pulled her bra back down over her breasts.
He took a hundred dollar bill from his shirt pocket and placed it on the small, round table that was bolted to the dirty floor. He stood up and walked passed her in silence.
When he reached the door he stopped and said, "Your address, give it to me."
She waited a long time before she warned him, "You're going to hurt me, and I'm going to hurt you."
"Your address, whore," he demanded.
She lowered her head, hesitated and finally surrendered, "Raimer Avenue, apartment xxxx."
He was familiar with the area; it was rundown, sordid and seedy. The last place on Earth someone as delicate as her should be.
****
He stepped out of the elevator and made the two lefts he had made so many times before. He had a key to her door, but he knew it would be unlocked. It always was. He turned the tarnished, peeling brass knob and slowly pushed the door open.
A cold shiver shot through him. It was eerie how everything looked black and white in her apartment. Almost as if colors ceased to exist, as soon as he stepped through her door.
The rustle of her bed sheets greeted him. She got up from her bed and made her way to him.
