U2's Mysterious Ways is coming out of my phone again: My ringtone for Emily. I ignore it - just watch the waves crash on the beach until it shuts up. I take another sip of beer as the missed call chimes. I glance down at it next to me: Five missed calls. I'd only been here about an hour.
StingRay's bar & grill was rather empty for a weekend. Maybe the heat was too much out on the patio. It was 90-something degrees, even under the umbrella over the table I'd chosen. But the breeze coming in from the water felt nice, and the patio gave me an impressive view of the nearby shoreline. In another frame of mind, I would actually enjoy this.
Emily had always been a firecracker. At 5'1" I guess she feels she has to compensate for her height. She's a petite girl with a runner's build, only a 29 inch waist. She sports toned legs, a tight stomach, and a proportionate chest to match her tight little frame. And an absolutely amazing ass. She keeps her jet black hair in a tight pixie cut showcasing her ocean blue eyes, angular jaw, and mile high cheekbones. She's not exactly what you'd call elegant, though. But she's also not an unhinged psycho either. She could hold her own in the bar after hours, and then meet my parents in the morning.
That's actually how we met; running. She'd lapped me at the park I use. I couldn't let that tight little red spandex covered ass out of my sight. That skin-tight halter top and shiny red runners shorts left nothing to the imagination. I picked up my pace to watch her perfect body glisten with sweat.
"Enjoying the view?" She shot over her shoulder at me. "Try and keep up!" Then she sprinted up the track, leaving me exhausted and humiliated. I caught up to her in the parking lot and introduced myself.
"Gasp...Hi...Gasp"
"Hi. I'm Emily." She smiled warmly.
"Tucker. My friends call me Tuck." I struggled to say, still catching my breath.
"Well, Tuck, looks like you still need a few more laps if you're going to keep up with me. See you next time." She teased, getting into her car.
A week and four more jogging trips later, I got her out of those spandex. She was amazing. Three months later we got an apartment together.
We argued from time to time, and almost always over stupid stuff. But the make up sex was always worth it. She has this high pitched undulation she makes when she was about to cum. Then, when she does, cover your ears. She belts out the loudest horror movie scream you've ever heard. I'm not kidding. We've had the cops show up at our door, making sure no one was being murdered. Our neighbors hate us. It's - or it was - one of my favorite things about her.
I'd bury my face deep into her, holding her thighs while she digs her nails into my skull and writhes. I used to love that image, watching her throw her head back and arch her torso while the orgasm takes over her tanned, toned body, screaming through clenched teeth.
I'd climb back up her body, trailing nips and licks from her navel to her chin. She'd inhale sharply when I paused to tug at her tight, eraser-sized nipples, then encircle them with my tongue. Then when she'd hooked her ankles behind me, I'd bite her ear and sink deep into her in one solid smooth stroke. We'd both sit still at first, just savoring the first rush of penetration. Then I'd start slow and deliberate strokes. Then she'd plant her hands on my hips, again sinking her nails into me and quicken the pace. But only when I heard the high pitched noises she'd make would I really start to pound on her. Then she'd tighten her legs and pull on my back with her hands. It was like she was trying to fit my entire body into her tight, shaved, dripping wet pussy. Then she'd deafen me again. Whatever argument we had was always worth watching that happen to her. And what's more, knowing I did it to her. She would always reciprocate. She'd treat me to a view of her deep blue eyes looking longingly up at me with her mouth full. She never disappointed, and she never missed a drop. Over the last two plus years, that has been my life.
I don't know what she could possibly have to say now, beyond the empty clichés and hollow apologies. I don't care what she has to say. She could be calling to say the apartment was on fire for all the fucks I give. Fine. Saves me the trouble of moving everything out. I'm tempted to just leave it all there anyway.
Another sip. I think to myself: "Nah. I need the laptop. It's mine and I need it for work. She uses it too, but fuck her. It's mine. I paid for it. Hope she's got backups." The phone strikes up again.
This morning, a lazy Saturday, we were finishing breakfast, discussing possible ways to spend the weekend. I'd taken our plates to the sink as we talked. That's when the storm started.
"We should pack an overnight bag and take the bike to Hilton Head island; take the scenic tour. Show off the new taillight I put on." I said.
"New taillight? She said, wrinkling her brow, "What was wrong with the one it had?"
"Nothing."
"Then why'd you get a new one?"
"This one's custom. It looks cool. Plus it was only 85 bucks."
"Why do you do that; waste money like that?"
"I'm not wasting it. I'm enjoying it."
"You always do that."
"Emily, it's not a big deal." I said.
Her response to that was to walk out of the kitchen mumbling to herself, but loud enough to hear; "Geez. You can be so irresponsible sometimes."
"Excuse me?" I shot back.
"Blowing money on stuff like that when you've got bills to pay." She shouted from the bedroom. "And it's not just you. I live here too. That's irresponsible. I didn't stutter."
"Woah!" I defended. "I make my bills, don't worry about that. And 85 bucks hardly breaks me. We'll be fine. Hell! We're planning a weekend trip for crying out loud. That's gotta cost more than my taillight."
Ignoring me, she went on, "That's not the point! It's 85 bucks for something you didn't even need! And you didn't even tell me about it. Does my opinion even matter? Fucking irresponsible!"
"I'm telling you now. My bike, my money. When I start missing rent payments then you can bitch. So for now, stop bitching and stop being irrational."
She stormed back into the kitchen. "Irrational?"
"Yes. You're being-" before I could finish my sentence she began strafing me with plastic bowls and insults.
"I'll show you irrational. You fucking asshole! I'll show you Bitch like you've never seen! Asshole. Fucking asshole!"
I ducked and moved out of the line of fire. "Stop Stop Stop! What the fuck had gotten into you?"
"You did, you asshole. I'm trying to be fiscally responsible, and you're out blowing your money acting like it doesn't matter and calling ME irrational!"
After she spat that out she followed it with a coffee cup. I ran out into the living room as it crashed on the wall behind me.
I'd had enough. I grabbed my keys off the desk and headed for the door. "You need to calm the fuck down. I'm out of here."
All I heard as I closed the door behind me was a loud "Fuck You!" Followed by another crash. I think it was a plate this time.
Like I said, we've had arguments before. And usually over stupid shit. But this was a new level. She'd never thrown anything but words until now. Still this wasn't enough to make me run to the beach and get drunk yet. I hopped on my bike and rode around a while, clearing my head and taking my frustration out on the road.
After a couple hours, I was out of gas, anger, and direction. I was in the next county and had no idea where I was. I topped off and headed back to the apartment. I'd considered calling, but in my frustration, I'd left my phone. If I hadn't already had my wallet I'd have really been screwed.
Pulling back into our parking lot I spot my buddy's jeep.
"Odd. What's Matt doing here?" I thought. We were friends and coworkers, and if there was a big marketing project coming up he'd come over and we'd pound it out. But there wasn't one that I was aware of. I parked next to it and got a closer look.
